


The Dust of Water

by Lomonaaeren



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Drama, F/M, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-05 09:31:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 47
Words: 144,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4174809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lomonaaeren/pseuds/Lomonaaeren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As far as Harry’s concerned, he’s woken from a weirdly deep sleep the day after the Battle of Hogwarts. It’s his friends who tell him that it’s ten years later, that he’s an Auror who got cursed while chasing a Dark wizard—and that his memory isn’t going to come back. Updated every Saturday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Burning Dust

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be a heavily angsty fic, as you can see from the summary and warnings. There isn’t going to be a cure for Harry’s amnesia, either. Keep that in mind before you read.

Harry opened his eyes and rubbed at them slowly. They felt all gummed together, which he didn’t understand. He’d gone upstairs to take a nap, right? A  _nap_ , not a bloody coma.  
  
He sat up, and stared. He wasn’t in his bedroom in Gryffindor Tower, either. The walls were white and pale green and blue, like the sea. There was a woman drowsing in the chair by his bed who he didn’t recognize. She was sitting with her chin on her chest and her brown hair clustered all around her face, and she wore the robes of a Healer.  
  
“What  _is_ this?”  
  
The woman shot to her feet at his words, her wand out and pointing at him. Harry glared back in silent outrage. He thought  _he_ was the one who ought to know why she was doing that, and it wasn’t like just waking up was dangerous!  
  
“Harry,” the woman whispered. “Oh,  _Harry_.” She sounded as if she was going to cry.  
  
“Do I know you?” Harry nervously backed up towards his pillow. He supposed she did look sort of familiar, but he didn’t know her. Maybe she was related to another student at Hogwarts. “Why aren’t I at Hogwarts?”  
  
The Healer closed her eyes, and whispered, “Yes, I knew this. No good putting it off.” She opened her eyes. “What’s the last thing you remember?”  
  
“Being at Hogwarts,” Harry said, staring at her. Could it be possible that he’d stumbled across someone who  _didn’t_ know about Voldemort and the battle? Was he in France or something? But the woman was speaking English without a trace of an accent, and he still didn’t know how he’d got here. “Going upstairs to take a nap. I’d just defeated Voldemort, you know. I thought I deserved a rest.”  
  
“Ten years,” the woman said to herself. “Ten years to the  _day_. I ought to have known. I did know. I just didn’t want to believe—” She lifted her wand, slowly this time. “Can I cast a few diagnostic charms on you?”  
  
Harry shrugged, keeping his eyes on the wand. He didn’t think diagnostic charms sounded bad, more like something Madam Pomfrey would do than anything else, but he did want to know what in the world she was doing here.  
  
_Instead of Madam Pomfrey. Wouldn’t Madam Pomfrey be the natural one to take me to if I was sick?_  
  
He did feel sort of strange, now that he thought about it. As though he’d hit his head really hard, but there was no pain. More a sort of ringing echo, like he knew in some part of himself that he’d slammed his head hard into a wall without being able to feel it.  
  
_But not all of me._ There was a sensation like he was taller, too, although Harry knew that was ridiculous. Even if someone had cast a spell to make him fall asleep or hit his head on a wall, why would it also leave that sensation?  
  
The Healer sighed quietly as red magic washed over Harry’s body and popped back with numbers and symbols he didn’t understand. “Yes,” she said. “Your body is healthy. The price of the attack all came out of your magical core. And the sacrifice it decided on from your brain.” She swallowed and looked at him again.  
  
“ _What_ attack?” Harry started to ask, but then something about the way the Healer was standing, or the way she turned her head or focused on him or something else, made the light catch oddly on her face, and told him who she was.  
  
“Hermione,” he whispered, and his hand ached from how hard he was clenching it.  
  
Hermione jumped and then focused on him again. Her face was bright with hope. “Harry, you’re  _remembering_?” She reached for him slowly, her arm trembling.  
  
“I would always know who you are,” Harry said, and continued speaking, because he had to, because just keeping quiet and letting Hermione hug him was impossible. “But why do you look so old?”  
  
Hermione stopped reaching for him. She covered her face with her hands for a second. Then she sat down in the chair beside the bed again and looked at him.  
  
“Harry,” she whispered, “it’s 2008.”  
  
Harry felt as though someone had stuck a spike through all his limbs now, holding him still. He could shake his head, but that was all.  
  
“Yes,” Hermione continued, her eyes full of pity. “You’ve been—you’ve been an Auror for the past five years. You returned to Hogwarts after the battle so you could sit your NEWTS, the way we all did. Then you entered Auror training and did that for three years, and then you came out and were one of the Ministry’s most successful Aurors.” She closed her eyes. There was a click in her throat when she breathed. “You were chasing one of the Dark wizards who always likes to stir up trouble on the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts when he hit you with the Killing Curse.”  
  
Harry stared around. “This doesn’t  _look_ like King’s Cross.”  
  
“Where you met Dumbledore?” Hermione only smiled sadly when Harry stared at her. “Yes, you told me and Ron all about that.” She gripped the side of his bed and stared at him intently. “The Killing Curse got pulled into your magical core, somehow. What happened was—something that’s not unknown, although most people we’ve studied performed this kind of sacrifice with spells of lesser strength.”  
  
“Sacrifice.” It was all Harry could say, but something in the back of his head was screaming,  _Haven’t I sacrificed enough?_  
  
“They gave up something else to negate the curse’s effects,” Hermione said quietly. “Part of their magic. Or all of their magic. Or years of their lives. It’s instinctual, accidental. What you gave up was some of your magic, and your memories of the past ten years.”  
  
Harry was the one to put his hands over his face this time.  
  
Hermione let him sit there long enough to feel hopeless, and then continued gently, “I thought so because of the damage that the spells told us you’d done to your brain. It’s damage that—that Muggle researchers have seen sometimes in people with affected memories. And then you were talking in your sleep. Repeating some of the same things you said to me and Ron ten years ago, on the day of the Battle of Hogwarts.”  
  
“Then that  _proves_ I must remember something,” Harry said. He believed her. His mouth was dry with terror, and he believed her. “If I was saying things like that, then I must have the memories somehow. What if they’re just hidden, or hard for Healers to get to? If you can come up with a spell that reaches them—”  
  
“I’ll try,” said Hermione. Her eyes were brimming. This time, she reached out and caught his hand and held it tightly enough that Harry was a little uncomfortable. “But so far, your case fits all the parameters of cases where the sacrifice was permanent. Even the sleep you fell into does. It’s your body recovering from the trauma of the magic and losing so many memories.”  
  
“I want a mirror.”  
  
Hermione stared at him for a second, but then she nodded and conjured a mirror. Harry grabbed it. It was a second before he could look at it, though.  
  
The face that stared back at him wasn’t the one he remembered, either. Maybe not  _that_ different, but his scar was more faded, and he wore round silver glasses that he didn’t remember seeing before, and he had a small scar on one cheek that looked as though someone had stitched the skin back together like a seam on a ball. He looked older, too.  
  
There was no denying that.  
  
Harry dropped the mirror. Hermione caught it before it could fall far and came back to croon comforting things at him that Harry didn’t bother listening to. He rolled over on the bed and pushed his face into the pillow.  
  
He was—he wasn’t himself anymore. There were ten years gone and they weren’t coming back.  
  
Or maybe they were. Harry rolled over again and looked at Hermione. If she’d become a Healer, then she would be the best Healer there ever was, and she could tell him. “Could you come up with a potion or a spell that might give me my memories back?”  
  
Hermione nodded like she was a general getting ready to charge out on the field. “I’m trying to do that. No one’s ever done it before, and the brain damage is what most concerns me. I’m going to try really hard. But I don’t—I don’t know if it will work, Harry.”  
  
Harry could translate that. Hermione hadn’t changed so much in ten years that he couldn’t read between the lines.  _She’s trying because I’m her friend. She doesn’t think she’ll succeed_.  
  
Harry curled up again and whispered, “What about Ginny? Where is she?” He wondered for a dreadful second if he was married to her, with kids that he wouldn’t remember how to love, but he had enough faith in Hermione to think she would have mentioned it right away if it was true.  
  
“You’ve been dating her for five years,” said Hermione, and her voice was a little thick. “I think—I think you were going to propose to her next year.”  
  
Harry curled in on himself harder.  
  
Five years with Ginny. Five years when they didn’t have to worry about Voldemort and he didn’t have to worry about Ron being upset because Harry was dating his little sister, or he would never have started this relationship in the first place. And he’d lost all that.  
  
He’d lost  _himself_. The person he’d become. His jokes with Ron and Hermione, and any battles he had fought as an Auror, and any Quidditch games he’d played, and whatever he’d learned about being an adult. It was gone.  
  
“Harry? Harry, are you all right?”  
  
That was Hermione, speaking so fast and loudly that Harry knew he must have frightened her. Harry let her roll him back over, but he didn’t uncurl. It wasn’t worth it, he thought. Everything he had become, all the different things he had done, they were all gone now. Were his friends going to even want him around anymore? They probably didn’t like  _him_ , they liked the Harry who had disappeared.  
  
He would rather have died. He wondered if he could reverse his magic’s sacrifice if he concentrated hard enough. Perhaps he would get his memories back right before he dropped down dead.  
  
Hermione was sobbing and holding onto him, but Harry couldn’t even hug her back. He didn’t know her. This person she had become. He didn’t know Ron. He didn’t know  _Ginny_. Would he even be able to fall in love with her again?  
  
He didn’t know when Hermione’s wand touched his temple and pushed him gently into sleep, but he was grateful for it when it happened.  
  
*  
  
“Of course you’re still  _you_ , mate.”  
  
Harry closed his eyes, Ron’s chiding hitting him in more ways than one. He shivered and held out a hand. Ron clasped it.  
  
“We know you’ll be different.” Ron was the most different person Harry had seen yet, with his immense height and the shaggy red hair that he’d told Harry he’d given up on cutting a few years ago and his anxious, wide eyes. He showed his emotions a lot more openly than Harry was used to, too. “But that’s okay. We’ll make friends again, and we can show you Pensieve memories, and that ought to make a difference, right?”  
  
Harry smiled back at Ron and squeezed harder. He hoped that would make a difference, yes. He didn’t want to be endlessly stuck in a limbo where he couldn’t make any new memories and couldn’t remember the old ones.  
  
But he didn’t think, privately, that it would make enough of one. There was always going to be a gulf between him and his friends. They could show him memories of when they were there, but not private memories of when they weren’t, and they couldn’t tell him what he had thought, or learned, or believed.  
  
“Harry?”  
  
_I thought it would be a while before she visited,_ Harry thought then, numb, and turned around to face Ginny.  _I thought I would have some warning_.  
  
She shook her head when she saw him staring. “Don’t blame Hermione or the other Healers. I waited as long as I could.” She exhaled the last words, and moved forwards to sit down next to the bed as Ron backed hastily out of the room, the most familiar thing he’d done so far.   
  
Ginny was so beautiful that it hurt Harry to look at her. She was nearly as tall as Harry himself was now—the way he’d grown, the way he didn’t remember. She’d brushed her hair back so it fell over her shoulders, and her freckles gleamed in a few new places, like the bridge of her nose.  
  
_Not new._ The power of that realization hit Harry again. The freckle could have been there for years, he thought. Since they got back together. He remembered the Ginny he’d kissed on his seventeenth birthday, the one who’d survived a dreadful year at Hogwarts. Nothing else. No one else.  
  
Ginny was still there, too, in one form or another, looking at him with patient, anxious eyes. Harry pulled himself together. It wasn’t her fault he didn’t remember her, and he had to do something to erase the fear from her face.  
  
“I suppose this isn’t the way you imagined we would meet again,” he muttered.  
  
“No,” said Ginny at once, her voice direct and firm and strong, and deeper than Harry remembered. The voice of a woman, not the girl he’d known. Harry ached, and wasn’t sure if it was for himself, or the woman, or the girl. “I never thought you would forget everything from the past ten years.”  
  
She stared down at her lap again, and then raised her eyes. “But I’m prepared to wait,” she whispered. “For as long as it takes.”  
  
Harry felt his heart melt. He sat up and leaned forwards, and Ginny met him in the hug halfway. Harry still felt a little shock when he realized that he was her height. He  _should_ have been shorter, but so should she. It was just easier to notice when he was looking at someone else.  
  
“No matter what we have to do,” Ginny breathed into his ear. “If we have to go hunting for the Mysterious Magical Artifact With No Name at the bottom of the Deepest Ocean There Ever Was. If we have to  _invent_  a spell. We’ll do it.”  
  
Harry felt a smile coming to his face. Ginny had a keener sense of humor than he remembered, too, one not so focused on pranks. Was this part of what he’d fallen in love with her for? He hoped so.  
  
“I’ll wait for you,” Ginny said, and pulled back and studied him. “No matter what. Because I know both people, the man I remember and the boy  _you_ remember, and I have memories to share, too.” She gave him a slight, wicked smile, one that made Harry flush as he thought about what some of those memories might be.  
  
That hit him with an unexpected force, suddenly.  _I don’t remember having sex, either. With Ginny or anyone else. When did it happen for the first time? Does Ginny even know?_  
  
It was a question that he couldn’t consider asking the regal woman in front of him. He only nodded and muttered a “Yes,” and Ginny drew back and smiled at him. Her eyes were bright, but not as teary as Hermione’s.  
  
“More Healers will want to visit you tomorrow,” she said. “And Kingsley. He understands what happened, but I think he hopes it will jog your memory if he talks about the case you were on.” She sniffed. “Plus, it doubles as an interrogation.”  
  
Harry managed a smile. “I do remember him as a good Order of the Phoenix member. Is he a good Minister, too?” That was what Ron had told him, that Kingsley had been chosen as temporary Minister and become a permanent one.  
  
“Yes,” said Ginny, and squeezed his hand. “I never—well, sometimes we argued about you being an Auror, because it was a dangerous job. So sometimes I disapproved of Kingsley and all the missions he sent you on. But now anything you need, anything that might help you remember.”  
  
_Brain damage,_ Hermione’s voice whispered in the back of his head.  
  
Harry shook his head. Hermione was a great Healer, something else Ron had told him, but she hadn’t been doing it as long as some of the other Healers who so far had only made brief visits to Harry. Maybe someone else would come up with something.  
  
And Harry hoped they did. He couldn’t stay the boy he remembered being two days ago. He  _wasn’t_. And he couldn’t build a new life when he didn’t understand a thing about how the world had changed in the past ten years, even if he had woken up around a bunch of new people he hadn’t spent those ten years with.  
  
_I want my life back._


	2. Like a Handful of Sand

“I brought the Pensieve,” Ginny said softly, startling Harry out of a light doze.  
  
Harry blinked and sat up. “I thought Kingsley was supposed to come this morning.” It was almost noon now, and he’d waited without any visitors other than Hermione and a few different Healers.  
  
“He got delayed,” said Ginny, and shook her head, making her hair curl softly around her shoulders. “That bastard Nate Jersey in the Wizengamot again—”  
  
“Who?” Harry asked.  
  
Ginny looked blank for the briefest second, and then blushed. “Sorry, Harry. I forgot. Jersey is a pure-blood who keeps campaigning for people who aren’t pure-bloods not to hold office. He says over and over again that if his ancestors had to wait to be elected, so should everyone else, until enough generations have passed that they’re considered pure-bloods, too.”  
  
Harry made a disgusted sound. “They let him get away with that, after the war?” He could imagine all the people who had fought together in the war, pure-bloods and Muggleborns and lots of people like him who were neither, and he didn’t understand what had happened.  
  
Ginny closed her eyes for a second. “Ten years have gone by since the war, though. Things that were important at the time are—no longer seen as important.”  
  
Harry fell silent. There was a grieving bitterness in her voice that he didn’t understand, and he thought he ought to let her explain if she wanted to.  
  
Grief had woken him up in the middle of the night, first when he had suddenly remembered that Remus and Tonks were dead and he would never get to see them again, and then when he had remembered that their son Teddy would be ten years old now. No one had said anything about Teddy visiting him yet. Harry was thankful for that.  
  
“And besides,” Ginny continued, putting the Pensieve down with a thunk in the middle of the table by the bed, “there are all these people who say that they don’t believe the same things as Jersey, but they can see where he’s coming from. So they sit back and say that we shouldn’t move too fast and make people who are angry at Muggleborns angrier, and maybe things will work out and the pure-bloods will give up their power of their own free will.”  
  
Harry let out a bitter laugh. He might not remember the last ten years and all the political debates he’d probably heard and fought in and ignored, but he had heard things like that from the Dursleys all the time. “Except why would the pure-bloods ever want to give up power?”  
  
Ginny stared at him, and Harry was just about to ask what was wrong when she began to grin. It was a wicked grin, and Harry could feel a little squirm of pleasure in his stomach at the thought that he’d been the one to cause it. “Why, Harry Potter. That sounds like something you could have said a week ago.”  
  
Harry gave her a smile he knew was shaky. “Maybe my memories are coming back, then?”  
  
Ginny shook her head, immediately and decisively. “Hermione said that that wouldn’t ever happen. She’s working on it, but I don’t think she—really believes she can do anything.”  
  
“Well, sometimes Hermione is wrong about things,” said Harry. “Like my broom having a hex on it.”  
  
Ginny’s smile was blank for a second, and then she sighed. “Your third year,” she said. “Right. The Firebolt.”  
  
Harry said nothing. It felt so sharp to him. Not as sharp as the memories of the battle did, because those had been two days ago and the Firebolt was four years ago, but he didn’t think that something like that could have faded out of your brain.  
  
 _Not unless you’re twenty-seven instead of twelve._  
  
Harry swallowed again, and stared at his hands until Ginny tapped him gently on the nose and got him to look up. “Do you want to see what’s in the Pensieve or not?”  
  
Harry nodded. He had left it up to Ginny to choose the memories that she wanted to put in the Pensieve, because he didn’t know what was private or not. He had only said that he wanted memories that would show him why they had fallen in love.  
  
Ginny reached out for him, and Harry crowded down with her and put his head in the Pensieve at the same time as she did. There was the usual swirling sensation, and the sensation of falling, and then they were standing a pub so noisy that Harry jumped. He saw a second later that it was the Leaky Cauldron. There were banners hanging everywhere, and so many people laughing and slamming their drinks on the tables that Harry couldn’t make out the song they were also singing.  
  
He turned his head, and there  _he_ was.   
  
He. Himself. Harry Potter. A taller and handsomer Harry than Harry had thought he would ever be. Of course, only a few days ago, as far as he was concerned, he had walked into the Forbidden Forest thinking he was going to die.  
  
The stranger—Harry didn’t feel it was him no matter how long he stared—finally held up his mug of Firewhisky and started to say something. That prompted everyone to start loudly shushing everyone else around them, which meant that the other Harry still couldn’t get his speech heard for about five minutes. And then by the time they  _were_ quiet, he was laughing too hard to stand up. Ron had to gently push him up and whisper, “It was about the battle, right, mate?”  
  
Harry blinked and took another look at the banners. Yes, they did say  _FIVE YEARS OF FREEDOM!_  So this was just over five years ago, five years after the Battle of Hogwarts. 2003.  
  
 _Years I haven’t seen yet,_ Harry thought, aching no matter how much he tried to suppress it, and turned around to look at the stranger as he raised his mug high and began his toast.  
  
“To all the people who fought beside us and paid with their lives,” he said, and the room went quiet at once. Harry had to shake his head, a little. He didn’t think he had the ability to make people be quiet like that, no matter what his friends wanted to pretend. “To everyone who did their best to make this future come true. To everyone who fought as hard as they could.” He looked around the room now, and gave a smile that made Harry reach up and feel his own cheeks. “The ones who lived, too.”  
  
That made people roar with hysterical cheering. Ginny, beside Harry, nodded to a far corner of the room. Harry squinted in that direction, and saw a woman who looked a lot like the one beside him, but less confident, one hand covering her mouth.  
  
“I think it was the night I fell in love with you,” Ginny whispered.  
  
“And because this is a night for courage and taking chances,” the stranger was saying when Harry turned back to him, “I’d like to take a chance and hope that the wonderful woman I’ve kept waiting this long will think I was worth the wait.” He turned straight to the past Ginny’s table, and smiled. “Ginny Weasley, will you go out with me?”  
  
“Not if you’d waited one minute longer,” said the Ginny sitting there.  
  
That made more people roar in appreciation and bang their mugs, and the real Ginny, as Harry thought of her, gave a long, trembling sigh when the stranger strode up and kissed her past self on the mouth.  
  
“That’s the kind of person you are,” she whispered, and glanced at Harry. “That’s how we fell in love.”  
  
Harry said nothing as the mist clouded around him and took him to another memory, but all he felt was confused. All right, he knew what he’d been like with Ginny—a sort of version of Ginny—but he didn’t know what had made him make that decision then. Or why he’d waited. Ginny seemed great, nice and sarcastic and smart and beautiful.   
  
 _Why_ had he waited?  
  
The next memory was of a bedroom that Harry didn’t recognize. He only knew it wasn’t Ginny’s bedroom in the Burrow. Ginny was kneeling upright in the bed that was covered with a thick blanket of red and white squares, looking down at someone next to her. Harry knew it had to be him—the stranger—but it still made his heart give a rough beat when he saw a head of messy black hair on the pillow.  
  
His face had firelight on it. The past version of Ginny reached out and covered the stranger’s cheek with one hand.  
  
“Why did it take you so long to come to me?” she whispered, and her voice was full of hope and longing and fear. “Was it really worth it?”  
  
Harry blinked and looked at Ginny. “What is she talking about?”  
  
Ginny had been standing with her hands behind her back, as if it was hard for  _her_ not to reach over and touch the stranger, but now she blinked and refocused on him. “What was  _I_ talking about,” she corrected him gently. “I know it doesn’t feel like it, Harry, but you’re not eighteen anymore. And I know you’re different, but that’s you and me there, not two strangers.”  
  
Harry flinched a little. It felt as if she had read his mind.  
  
 _But I know what that feels like, and she’s no Snape._  
  
“Well, I still want to know,” Harry said, and hoped he didn’t sound childish.  
  
“Oh.” Ginny sighed a little. “You almost avoided me for the five years after the battle. You were friendly to me when you were over at the Burrow or with Ron, but you—it was as if there was this barrier there. You told me once that you had to make up your mind. You were struggling. You’d learned something about yourself and you didn’t like it.”  
  
Harry blinked, trying to digest that. “Is there anyone who could tell me what that is?” He had probably confided in Hermione. Maybe not Ron, not if it was his sister that Harry was putting off dating.  
  
Ginny shook her head slowly. “I don’t know. You told me once it had to do with a locked drawer in your desk. But shhh, we’re missing the memory.” And she drew him against her and pointed back to the figures on the bed.  
  
Harry looked back to see that the past version of himself had woken up and was sleepily smiling at the past version of Ginny. He reached up and laid a hand against her cheek, and the past version of Ginny kissed him and whispered, “Why  _did_ it take you so long to come to me?”  
  
Harry swallowed when he saw the stranger’s eyes focus. He ought to be able to pick out what that version of himself was feeling by watching, he thought. After all, he should know himself better than anyone else.  
  
But either he didn’t, or he had changed a lot in those years, because the stranger shook his head and whispered, “There were other paths I thought I wanted to take. But none of them led to  _you_.” And he pulled the past Ginny down against him, and began to kiss her slowly. Ginny, the real one, gave a little sigh.  
  
Harry swallowed, wanting to see them make love and not wanting to see it at the same time. But the wall of silver descended and dissolved him and Ginny again into another memory.  
  
At first, Harry could hardly believe it was the one she’d meant to show him. Ginny-from-the-past was standing across what looked like a gigantic kitchen from them, her arms folded and her back turned. But from where they were standing, Harry could see her eyes closed in pain and some tears on her cheeks. He squirmed. He had never known what to do when a girl was crying, from Cho on up.  
  
The stranger must have got more sophisticated in those last years, though. He looked calmly at his own Ginny’s back, and said in a voice that sounded only a little like he was going to shout, “Do you understand now? Why I didn’t want to tell you?”  
  
“No,” said the other Ginny, and turned around. She looked more like the woman at his side than any of the others had, Harry thought. Her arms were folded and her jaw set in a regal fashion, and her tears might be tears of anger as well as sadness. “I don’t understand why you would hold back from telling me that you’d be gone on an Auror mission during my  _birthday_. The birthday you told me you would be there for.”  
  
“Gin—”  
  
Harry caught his breath a little. For some reason, he thought the way the stranger called her “Gin” was even more intimate, in some ways, than watching them in bed together.  
  
“I don’t care if you have to go on Auror missions.” Ginny-from-the-past caught her own breath and went on. “I know you have a dangerous job. I  _know_. And I chose to stay with you in spite of it.” She came forwards a step. “But I won’t have you  _lying_ to me.”  
  
The stranger blinked and pushed his glasses up. Then and only then, Harry thought,  _He looks like me. That’s what I’d do._  
  
“Why did you choose to show me this?” he did whisper to Ginny. “It’s not very romantic.”  
  
“Because I want to show you that we can get through uncomfortable things, fights, together, and still stay together,” said Ginny, and pulled him against her with one arm. “Just in case you thought that we couldn’t make it through this. We  _will_ , Harry, and we’ll make it. We’ll rebuild, stronger than ever.”  
  
She looked at him, and there was so much love in her eyes. Harry might not know a lot, he might have forgotten even more, but he knew one thing. He had always wanted someone to love him like this.  
  
But it made his stomach hurt and fill with dread, because what if he wasn’t worth it? What if he messed it up, when Ginny realized that he wasn’t the man she needed and wanted and never would be again?  
  
Harry licked his lips, tried to ignore his dry throat, and focused on the memory in front of him. Because worrying about how Ginny could continue to love him would ignore the evidence she was trying to show him, that she  _did_ love him.  
  
 _She loves someone who’s dead. It’s like Cho trying to date you when she was still mourning Cedric. She couldn’t make you into a Cedric substitute, and Ginny can’t make you into your dead self._  
  
Harry decided to ignore that voice. It sounded like Uncle Vernon.  
  
In the fight, his past self was saying softly, “Gin, I’m sorry. I really did hope that I would be able to stay for your birthday. Kingsley assigned me this mission at the last minute.”  
  
“Where are you going?” the past Ginny demanded. The past Harry hesitated, and she snorted. “Oh, yes, promise me that you’ll tell the truth, and then hold back  _again_.”  
  
“It’s not like that,” said the stranger, and Harry recognized the moment when he decided to throw the rules away and do what he needed to do.  _That_ was familiar, at least. “It’s that it’s another mission for the Unspeakables, and Kingsley really didn’t want me to talk about it. But I know you won’t betray me, Gin. The whole world would, before you.”  
  
Ginny-from-the-past leaned back and looked up at the stranger— _me, that’s me,_ Harry reminded himself—and there was a melting look in her eyes. Harry didn’t think she was surprised to hear this. She had just needed to hear him—the stranger—say it again.  
  
 _Before Ron and Hermione, though? I would trust her before anyone else, before everyone else in the world?_ Harry shook his head a little. He would never have believed that at one point.  
  
But he tried to tell himself that lots of things must have happened in those ten years. Ron and Hermione had their own lives, too, and they had let him have this time alone with Ginny. Hermione had told him he was on the verge of getting  _married_ to Ginny. There must have been a lot going on between them that was gentle and important and special.  
  
“We’re going to Sicily,” the stranger whispered then, against the lips of Ginny-from-the-past. “There’s some news that an exact replica of Bellatrix Lestrange has been seen there. It can’t be someone using Polyjuice, and it can’t be her, so we have to find out what’s going on.”  
  
Ginny-from-the-past relaxed with a rush. “That’s all right, then,” she said, and put an arm around his neck. “If it’s her, kill her again for me, all right?”  
  
The stranger laughed, and they were kissing, and the memory dissolved, and Harry was again sitting on the bed in St. Mungo’s, with Ginny watching him hopefully.  
  
Harry said the first thing that came to mind. “They were so in love.”  
  
Ginny lifted her chin with that battle-motion Harry had seen in the past argument. “ _We_ were,” she said, and then smiled at him. “I still am.”  
  
Harry gave her a nervous, unhappy smile back. “Even though I’m not the man you remember? Even though no one is, anymore?”  
  
“I believe that you’re still you.” Ginny’s gaze was unwavering. “You still have the same beliefs and morals and principles. You’d still make the same choices, if you had them to make over again. You’ll still find your way back to me.” She reached out and took his hand again. “And I’ll be there at the end of the road.”  
  
Harry thought his smile was stronger this time. “Even if it takes me another five years?”  
  
“It won’t.”  
  
 _So much confidence, so much strength._ Harry only wished he had that much.  
  
For Ginny, he was willing to try.


	3. The Brass Serpent

Harry stared at the photograph that Kingsley Shacklebolt had thrust in front of him, and then glanced away from it, blinking. “I don’t know him. Should I?” The wizard had a dark moustache and long beard, and some unusual silver decorations around the collar of his robe, but Harry knew he would have remembered him if he had ever seen him before.  
  
Shacklebolt—well, Harry was trying to remember to think of him as Kingsley—sighed and sat back on the chair placed for visitors, shaking his head. “I’d hoped you would remember him,” he muttered. “He’s the wizard who did this to you.”  
  
Harry turned back. “I thought I did it to me.” He had read all the books that Hermione had, the ones on the magical core and how it could respond to someone’s wishes to sacrifice magic or memory or other things and survive a curse.  
  
“He was the one who cast the Killing Curse, though.” Kingsley cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Harry. I thought confronting you with his picture suddenly like that would startle any memories to life that were still hiding.”  
  
Harry stiffened. Some of the Healers had treated him like that, too, Healers who weren’t Hermione. “I don’t  _have_ any memories left,” he said, as calmly as he could. “And I wouldn’t hide them on purpose. I want to go back to the man I was!”  
  
Kingsley eyed him after he screamed that, and Harry felt his cheeks flush dully with mortification. He must sound like a teenager screaming how unfair it was. That that was exactly the way he felt didn’t mean anyone else should have to deal with it.  
  
He opened his mouth to apologize, but Kingsley was already holding up one large hand and shaking his head. “No, Harry, it’s all right. I thought it worth a try, but Healer Granger told me about what happened to your magical core.” He leaned forwards with an earnest face. “You don’t remember  _anything?_ What’s the time of your last memory?”  
  
“Going up to Gryffindor Tower to take a nap right after the Battle of Hogwarts.” And people dying, but Harry wasn’t going to talk about that. Last night, it had been Fred he woke shuddering with grief for, because he had missed the funeral. Or couldn’t remember the funeral. Ron had offered to take him to see Fred’s grave, since he’d be cleared to leave hospital in a few days, but Harry knew it wouldn’t be the same.  
  
“I see.” Kingsley hesitated. “Then you must know that you can’t become an Auror again without repeating the Auror training program, if you really don’t remember a thing.”  
  
Harry ached with the desire to say so many things: Why  _would_ he remember it, when so much else was gone? He had more important things to remember than the Auror training program, things he would have given half his life to remember. Why did people seem to think he was deliberately hiding memories? What if he wanted some time to recover instead of plunging right back into the life that had been taken from him?  
  
But when he thought about it that way, confusion flooded him, because that last thought contradicted the first one. He couldn’t want to remember the old life and start building a new life at the same time.  
  
He swallowed. “Yes, sir, I realize that,” he said. “The only thing is—can the other instructors and trainees treat me fairly? Or will they always be expecting me to remember and act the way I did before?”  
  
Kingsley’s smile seemed to make his face glow from the inside out, and that made it easy for Harry to see why he must once have wanted to work with this man so much. “I wouldn’t offer you the option if I thought they couldn’t adapt, Harry,” he said warmly. “I’ll explain the situation to them, and it had  _better_ work. Or I’ll train you myself.”  
  
Harry nearly opened his mouth to say that was what he wanted. He wasn’t looking forward to being released from St. Mungo’s, honestly, as much as he wanted to see the home he shared with Ginny and all the people he hadn’t seen so far. St. Mungo’s had kept the number of visitors small so as not to overwhelm him, and when he saw the flood of people who wanted to gape at him and shout questions and expect him to remember all sorts of small interactions he didn’t…  
  
But he couldn’t want Kingsley to train him on his own. Not  _really_. That would mean not doing what he’d done before, not going through the exact same steps that might, even if it was a small hope, give some sense of what it was to live the life he’d lost.  
  
“When does the next training program start, sir?” he asked.  
  
Kingsley’s smile was even more brilliant than before. “In August. I think you’ll have some time before then to get back on track?”  
  
Harry nodded, swallowing. Then he asked something that neither Ron nor Hermione had known the answer to, and which he hadn’t thought to ask Ginny. When he was with her, Harry was in the process of being overwhelmed by so much, and he wanted to ask other questions that were far more important. “Sir, do you know if I kept a journal or diary of some sort that would record my thoughts during Auror training? Whether I would still have it? My friends didn’t know.”  
  
Kingsley blinked, looking surprised. “Not to my knowledge. You said something once about not trusting journals not to write back.”  
  
Harry grimaced. At least he could understand  _that_ based on memories he still had.  
  
“But there are Auror training logs that all instructors are required to keep and hand in when their classes move on to become full Aurors.” Kingsley stood up looking happy. “I should have thought of that before. And of course some instructors who taught you are still around and would be pleased to contribute Pensieve memories. I know it’s not the same, but it would let you know who your classmates were, how you performed, who you got along with and who you didn’t. Would that be acceptable?”  
  
“More than acceptable,” said Harry, breathing out with a trembling sigh. He couldn’t believe how good Kingsley was to him. They didn’t need him to defeat Voldemort anymore—  
  
But, no, he had become Kingsley’s friend during the past ten years. That was what everyone said. Harry didn’t know  _why_ he had so much trouble believing them.  
  
“Harry?”  
  
Kingsley was still waiting. He still needed some more acknowledgement, apparently. Harry shook himself free of the clinging mists of doubt and smiled at him. “I would like to see how people reacted to me when I was still a new trainee, sir. It’s going to be like that again, really.”  
  
That brought yet another dazzling smile, and Kingsley patted Harry on the shoulder. “It’s good to see you getting ready to resume your old life,” he said softly. “I know a lot of people in your situation would have simply given up.”  
  
Harry bowed his head and said nothing. There were times he did feel like giving up, telling himself it was useless.  
  
But then guilt would consume him, because his old life had been so wonderful. How could he feel like he wanted to leave it behind even for an instant?  
  
*  
  
“Auror Potter, over here! Just one question! How does it feel knowing that you can’t remember defeating any of the Dark wizards that you took care of after you defeated You-Know-Who?”  
  
“Auror Potter! Any news on how soon you’ll have your memories back?”  
  
“No, over here! This is the  _important_ question! How many of your previous political opinions will you continue to support?”  
  
Harry hunched his head and shoulders as he moved through the crowd of stares and clicking cameras and shouting voices. Hermione gave him several sympathetic glances as they walked, wrapping one arm around his shoulders so that he could shelter next to her if he needed to.  
  
He had known how to deal with the press. Ginny had shown him memories of that, too, of how he had dealt with the rudest and most unforgivable questions with a quip and a smile. People had come up to them when they were on their dates, and had gone away satisfied because the stranger Harry had become was so quick with his tongue.  
  
 _I had a knowledge of politics, and I knew—I knew how to be gracious._  
  
It was something Harry couldn’t remember ever having learned. It made a hollow ache fill the space inside him that felt as if it should have been filled with memories instead. It made him wonder how long it would be before his friends figured out he was an imposter and couldn’t ever be what they needed from him, what they had a right to expect from him.  
  
“I see that the great Harry Potter is as arrogant as ever about answering questions.”  
  
That voice attracted Harry’s attention because it was one he knew. His head jerked around, despite Hermione muttering something about “schoolboy rivalries” and trying to keep him moving forwards.  
  
Draco Malfoy hadn’t changed in ten years except to grow taller. Same voice, same sneer when he met Harry’s eyes. Harry felt a fierce, hot gladness spring up in him, burning for the first time since he’d lost his memories.  
  
“And I see the great Draco Malfoy hasn’t learned any manners or shame despite having gone through a war.”  
  
Malfoy recoiled, his eyes widening and his cheeks burning. Harry grinned. He knew it was a vicious grin they were snapping photographs of, and didn’t care. He felt—not like himself, because he didn’t remember being himself, but  _real_.  
  
Malfoy was still staring at him when Hermione bundled Harry finally into the Apparition point and took his arm. Harry let her do it. He had only the glimpses of his home that he’d seen through the donated Pensieve memories, not nearly enough to Apparate to it with any degree of confidence.  
  
They arrived, staggering, in a large room that had photographs of all sorts hung on the walls. Harry blinked at them. He recognized some of the photos from the album Hagrid had made him of his parents’ pictures, but a lot of them were new. Him standing in Auror robes with his arm slung around Ron’s shoulders, probably when they got out of training. Him standing in a similar position with Hermione in what looked like brand-new Healer’s robes, both of them smiling and waving madly at the camera.  
  
And picture after picture of him with Ginny. The real one was standing near the couch that rang the length of one wall with a hopeful, tentative smile.  
  
“He looks like he’s been almost knocked down,” Ginny said, and blinked at Hermione. “What happened?”  
  
“I took him through the main entrance to hospital because I thought it would help him get used to large crowds of people again, and it was too much,” Hermione admitted with a small sigh. “We probably should have Flooed the way you said we should, Ginny.”  
  
“Yeah, that would have helped,” Harry muttered. He understood why they were talking about him like he wasn’t there, that he probably did look even more shocked than he was, but he resented it a little.  
  
Hermione turned towards him at once with a motherly smile. “Why don’t you go sit down in the study? You usually— _used_ to spend a lot of time there, and I don’t think Ginny really got a chance to show it to you through the memories.”  
  
Harry nodded and walked dazedly off. He heard Hermione talking about a cup of tea and Ginny saying, “Let me make it.” They would probably leave him alone for a few minutes.  
  
The study was ridiculous. Harry could never picture himself becoming the sort of person who would want a large mahogany desk and a golden inkstand. But he had them. He would have to get used to it, he thought, sitting down behind the desk and staring at the pictures on top of it. Himself standing with other Aurors around a captured man who looked like Rabastan Lestrange. Ginny smiling at him from a beach in what might be France. The stranger again, clapping mugs with an equally unfamiliar dark-haired man in a pub that didn’t look like the Leaky Cauldron or the Hog’s Head.  
  
There were scrolls on the wall, all of them bearing large golden letters that Harry could make out said RECOMMENDATION or COMMENDED. Beside them were a few framed Orders of Merlin. Harry looked away.  
  
He had got lucky when he faced Voldemort. He doubted, with a sinking heart, that anyone would be willing to hear that now, because it seemed he  _had_ proven he was a hero in the years since.  
  
But how could he be a hero if he didn’t remember how?  
  
Sitting there, in the chair that fit his body but seemed to have been molded for someone taller and better than he was anyway, Harry shut his eyes. Then he sat up and turned around, something Ginny had said ringing in his mind.  
  
 _You told me once it had to do with a locked drawer in your desk._  She had said that had something to do with the five years that Harry had waited before dating her.  
  
Harry reckoned that at least this particular secret, when he discovered it, wouldn’t have other people expecting him to remember it. It probably had to do with the Dursleys, he thought, or maybe how long it had taken him to come to terms with the war and murdering Voldemort. Maybe this was the resting place of the journal he’d asked Kingsley about.  
  
The drawer was the top one on the left, and it didn’t open when Harry tugged on it. Harry paused and studied the handle for a second, wondering if it needed a particular password or spell. If so, it was going to be as locked to him as anyone else.  
  
Then he noticed something that he shouldn’t have overlooked, and it made his heart beat a little harder, in shock. The handle of the drawer was shaped like a slender brass snake, coiled back on itself and waiting with its mouth slightly open to display fangs.  
  
Harry licked his lips. He knew, he  _knew_ , that his Parseltongue ability would have disappeared when Voldemort was destroyed. Ginny had told him that during one conversation, and Harry had reasoned it out because Dumbledore had told him that the ability came from the Horcrux.  
  
The drawer probably didn’t open with Parseltongue, either, Harry told himself. Maybe the drawer handle had been that way when he bought the desk. Maybe whoever had made the desk just liked snakes.  
  
When he checked the other handles on the drawers, he had to abandon that theory. This one was the only one that looked like a serpent.  
  
Harry closed his eyes. He didn’t need to see the snake to speak Parseltongue, if he was going to speak it. The image of the thing burned behind his eyelids.  
  
“ _Open_.”  
  
The slight click of the drawer made Harry tremble as if he still had a fever. He reached out and slid the drawer open, flinching a little when his fingers didn’t fall where he expected them to. Living in a taller body was something he was still getting used to.  
  
Inside the drawer was a slender red-and-gold book. Harry lifted it out, and then started when some equally slender pieces of paper slid from inside it. He picked them up, and found himself looking at more pictures of himself and the dark-haired man he was clashing mugs with in the photo on his desk.  
  
Only this time, he was leaning on the man’s shoulder, and the man had his head turned backwards, kissing Harry. And they only went on doing it while Harry watched, frozen.  
  
There were other pictures there, which Harry scrambled through. Some of him and the man walking down a beach that didn’t look that different from the beach in the picture of Ginny on his desk. Some of the man dozing on rocks, or the edges of cliffs, or in flowery meadows next to deep blue lakes. A snapshot of Harry naked in bed with his hand curled open, his eyes lazily smiling at the camera.  
  
He looked different in that picture than in the memory Ginny had shown him of them asleep in bed together.  
  
Younger, for one thing.  
  
Harry felt as though he was suffocating in a sandstorm. He opened the book and flicked through it.  
  
It did appear to be a journal, full of excited entries about Auror training, Ron and Hermione, the end of the Battle of Hogwarts, the clean-up process, how he had testified at Death Eater trials. And then the name “Rob Haynes” started showing up more and more often. Harry slowed down to peer at one entry that was dated the second of April, 2000.  
  
 _I don’t understand why I’m feeling this way about Rob Haynes from my training classes. I mean, he’s more fun to spar against than even Ron, and that might be part of it. But I’m also thinking about his mouth and shoulders and the way he smiles at me when he sees me come into the room._  
  
 _I don’t want to be gay._  
  
Harry hastily slammed the book shut and stuffed it back into the drawer in his desk, along with the pictures. He thought he knew now why he had waited five years to date Ginny.  
  
Although not why he’d done it in the end, if he was gay. Or what had happened to this Rob.  
  
It sounded like the tea was done in the kitchen, and Hermione and Ginny would be coming in soon. Harry had to shut the drawer before then.   
  
There was something else in the back of it, though, besides the journal and the photographs. Harry reached for what looked like another journal, his blood thrumming. Maybe this would be the one that explained what the hell he had been thinking, or how he had moved on from Rob to Ginny.  
  
But it wasn’t. It was a list of names, like one of the ledgers Harry had sometimes seen George and Fred—  
  
 _Fred_.  
  
Harry closed his eyes until he was past it, then opened them and looked again.  
  
And the names had prices beside them. Twenty Galleons, ten Galleons, sixteen Sickles. Harry flipped through the pages, noticing that a few of the prices had cryptic notes beside them on the other side. “Potions accident.” “Unfaithful to his wife.” “Dabbled in Dark Arts.”  
  
And then—  
  
Then there was the name “Draco Malfoy.” The price of twenty-four Galleons with a minus sign in front of it, while most of the others had pluses. And the note “Experimental potion. Didn’t work.”  
  
Harry stared with a cold feeling creeping up his spine. It looked like he’d paid Malfoy money, while most of the others he had been…collecting money from? Why? Were they his fans? Harry didn’t recognize the names except for Malfoy’s.  
  
“Harry?”  
  
Harry stuffed the ledger back in the drawer and slammed it shut. He heard a slight click that was probably the Parseltongue lock engaging, and stood up with a faint smile to meet Ginny. He had to be the person they remembered, he reminded himself. He  _wanted_ to be that man again.  
  
Maybe he should be grateful that this accident had happened. It was letting him forget things that looked like they weren’t worth remembering, and only retain the happy memories or the ones that had ended happily.  
  
But for the rest of that evening, the contents of the drawer danced feverishly in the back of his mind, new memories he had no idea of how to account for.


	4. Dreams Built on Dust

“Harry? We’re almost ready to leave for the Burrow, aren’t we?”  
  
Harry pulled a hasty hand back from the wall of their bedroom, and turned to smile over his shoulder at Ginny. “Of course we are,” he said. He was getting used to the sound of his own voice now, the way that it seemed deeper. It wouldn’t ever sound as confident as it had in some of those memories, he thought, but Ginny didn’t seem to mind. “I thought you were going to do your hair up with that hat, though?”  
  
Ginny’s hand flew to her hair, and she made a sharp noise. “You’re right. I’ll be back.” She disappeared into the bathroom again.  
  
Harry sighed and glanced uneasily at the wall. He had seen an outline there last night, but he’d ignored it. He had tried to concentrate, instead, on refamiliarizing himself with the bed, the touch of the sheets, Ginny’s casual hand on his shoulder, and the warmth of another body behind him.  
  
It had been difficult.   
  
But more difficult, he thought, was leaving the square outline alone. He touched the side of it, and leaned nearer to squint when it didn’t immediately open. He was probably being stupid. It was probably a private safe for papers or something, and Ginny knew all about it.  
  
But since the discovery of that locked drawer and that ledger, which made him feel faint and sick still, Harry wasn’t taking things for granted.  
  
“ _Open_ ,” he tried hissing, although he couldn’t see any snake design on the wall this time. Then again, maybe it wouldn’t have been as visible. Ginny would probably have objected.  
  
There was a click, and the door sagged a little. Harry swallowed and steered it open, glancing over his shoulder several times.  
  
Inside were more papers. Glancing through them, Harry sighed. They looked like ordinary letters, without the notations of money in the ledgers that had disturbed him so much.  
  
Then he saw the name “Rob” at the bottom or top of some of those letters, and tensed up again.  
  
 _Dear Rob,_ one of them said,  
  
 _Thank you for a wonderful evening. I think I’m learning what you wanted to teach me, but I might need more lessons. Can I see you for more of them soon?_  
  
There was no doubt that was his own handwriting. Harry had forgotten a lot, but not what his writing looked like, and it seemed to be one of the parts of him that had changed the least.  
  
He shook his head and shuffled the papers around again. Letters, letters, more letters. Most of them were to Rob, and some of them were to people whose names he had written in the ledger. Harry winced and closed his dry-as-dust eyes, rubbing at them.  
  
There was a sharp noise in the bathroom that sounded like a drawer closing. Ginny liked to close them emphatically, and the same with doors. It was a thing Harry was slowly getting used to.  
  
Harry sighed, and put the letters back into the safe. At a glance, they weren’t going to tell him anything, what they were or why he’d hidden them, and he didn’t have time to read them in detail right now.  
  
He did see a looped-together bundle then, the shimmer of the spell that bound them almost invisible in the safe’s dusk. Harry scooped them up and noticed that they were addressed to Malfoy, and then to “Draco.”  
  
Malfoy was the only one of those people in the ledger he knew, or that he’d seen since the loss of his memories. Harry hesitated over the letters, and then he heard Ginny striding towards the door of the bathroom. Harry swept the bundled letters into his robe pocket in one smooth movement and shut the safe on the rest.  
  
“Ready now!” Ginny stepped out into the middle of the room, her pointed hat, in a bright grey color, bound over her long red hair. Her robes were the same shade of soft grey, and looked wonderful on her. Harry rose to his feet, smiling.  
  
“Are you nervous?” Ginny asked him softly. “Don’t worry, Harry. It’s my family. Remember, they love you.”  
  
Harry was about to say that he didn’t remember, but then he realized Ginny was referring to the memories he’d made with the Weasley family before he left Hogwarts. He relaxed. “Yeah,” he admitted, and reached one hand out. “But more afraid of not getting jokes and references than anything else.”  
  
“I’ll help you with that.” Ginny held his hand and stood for a moment looking into his eyes.  _Her_ eyes were still at the wrong height for what Harry remembered. “You believe me, don’t you, Harry? That I would help you with anything? That you could tell me anything, even if your memories don’t return?”  
  
Harry swallowed, but did manage to say, “Do you still think they will? You heard Hermione. It’s not going to happen.”  
  
He spoke more harshly than he wanted to, because the thought of Ginny collapsing in despair hurt him. Not the self-confident woman he had seen in those Pensieve memories. She could have anyone she wanted. Tying her to him forever, just because she  _might_ think that he’d get his memories back, seemed cruel.  
  
Ginny nodded. “I know that. I know about all the chances there are against it, and I told you. I’m prepared to wait until you can watch enough Pensieve memories to know what your life was like. Which is different from you getting your own memories back.” She drew a deep breath. “But I also think—that you’re Harry Potter. You’ve defied the odds so many times already. I thought you were gone forever after we broke up in our last year at Hogwarts, and then you came back to me. So I thought—well, maybe this will be another time when you can.”  
  
Harry turned his head gently into the side of her cheek, so he could touch her skin, and smell her, and feel the slight throbs of her pulse that shook her. He wondered if she should have so much faith in him, based on what he was discovering in those hidden nooks.  
  
But he had to admit, he  _wanted_  to earn that faith.  
  
“All right,” he whispered. “I want them to come back, too. Maybe if we both hope hard enough, it can happen.”  
  
Ginny’s smile was as slow and warming as the sunrise. “Stranger things have happened.”  
  
 _Like me resisting the Killing Curse again,_ Harry thought.  _And apparently writing willingly to Draco Malfoy_.  
  
The bundled letters seemed to burn in his robe pocket. But Harry knew he would have to wait. The Weasleys were more important.  
  
*  
  
Harry slipped out of the Burrow and stood in silence on the darkened grass, staring upwards. The children, the only reason he’d been able to slip out, were still making plenty of noise behind him. Harry didn’t think he’d be missed right now.  
  
The evening had been a disaster.  
  
And the heart-wrenching thing was, he knew the Weasleys hadn’t thought so. They were still overflowing with love and warmth for him. His shoulders ached with the strength of Mrs. Weasley’s hugs, and even Mr. Weasley’s and Bill’s and Charlie’s. Charlie had come all the way from Romania to be here. Ron and Hermione were part of it, too, their eyes shining with hope. Fleur had brought a strand of her hair twined around a slender silver chain for Harry, a Veela good luck charm that she said sometimes helped wizards hit with Memory Charms to recover.  
  
But Harry didn’t  _know_ them. He had stood there in shock when the door opened and he had seen Mrs. Weasley almost entirely grey, with wrinkles in her face as though someone had carved them there. He didn’t know the silver-haired girl named Victoire who’d just had her tenth birthday and who’d tried to tell him that she was a good Seeker because he’d taught her to be, or the slightly younger girl—Dominque—who expected him to be so good at chess, or the five-year-old boy, Louis, who held out his arms to Harry the minute he saw him.   
  
And Percy, Percy was there with his wife Audrey to whom Harry had apparently been close, since they’d been in Auror training at the same time, and his two daughters, laughing Lucy and shy Molly. And there was George, with a Fred who made Harry ache and wouldn’t look up from books, and his daughter, Roxane, who had sobbed when she made a joke and Harry didn’t know the punchline. Angelina, who would have been a more familiar face, was working.  
  
Ron and Hermione had—children. A daughter and son they hadn’t mentioned when he was in hospital, probably because they thought it might depress him further. Rose, who had tried to talk to him about a book they’d been reading together. Hugo, who had pestered him for tales of Hogwarts.  
  
Harry felt as disoriented as he would have if he’d traveled in time. Well, no, worse, he decided, as he reached up and put his hands on either side of his head, pressing his cheeks inwards. Because then, at least, no one would have  _expected_ him to know who all these children were and what his relationships to these people were.   
  
Ginny had insisted on pausing the conversation each time to explain the relevant memories to him. It was hell.  
  
Not that she wanted to explain, not that the Weasleys wanted to love him. Harry knew it was all his fault. Or the fault of the man he had been. If he hadn’t gone off chasing after a wizard who would fire a Killing Curse at him…  
  
No one had come after him yet. Harry looked over his shoulder and saw that Victoire was dancing with Fred in the middle of the room, and everyone was focused on them. He might have a few minutes more.  
  
Harry closed his eyes.  
  
 _It might also be hell because you’re wondering what sort of man the stranger really was, and if he could be as good as Ginny and the rest of them insisted._  
  
He drew out the letters and picked up the top one, listening intently for the sound of the door opening. His skin prickled with something that might have been sweat or guilt. He should go and show these to Ginny, along with the photographs and books he had found.  
  
On the other hand, did he have the right to poison  _her_ memories?  
  
Harry didn’t know. He told himself that he would let this top letter guide him. If it said something incriminating, then he would put it away and let things fade into the past. He had to ignore it, if he was going to become the man Ginny loved again.  
  
 _Malfoy_ ,  
  
 _I’ve heard you brew rather particular potions. I’m in the market for an experimental one. A mutual friend of ours—you may know him by his very blue eyes—said that you concocted a potion that made the facet of his personality he despised the most disappear. I want you to do the same thing for me._  
  
 _Of course, I have a bigger problem than simply being late. I find myself compelled to listen to these Dark promptings that encourage me to hoard secrets, artifacts, and many other things that I don’t need to possess and would probably never use. When I say that I want a potion to become a better person, I really mean it._  
  
 _I’m prepared to pay whatever you desire in research costs, materials, and development fees…_  
  
The door opened. Harry crumpled the letter up in his hand and held it there, staring at the stars, as Ginny walked up to him.  
  
“What’s wrong?” Ginny whispered into his ear, and then kissed him on his earlobe.  
  
 _Here’s your chance. Turn towards her. Tell her that the other you wanted a potion to make him a better person. Tell her that you’re afraid he was blackmailing people. Tell her that he wasn’t as good as she thought he was._  
  
 _Yes, tell her that, and then what?_  
  
Harry turned slowly towards Ginny. There was no right choice here. Did he take away her hope, or her trust?  
  
Before he could say anything, Ginny looped her arm through his and looked up at the stars. “Did I tell you I have a favorite constellation?” she asked.  
  
It was on the tip of Harry’s tongue to say that she might have told him once and then he’d forgotten, but he decided to treat her words the way they seemed to be offered, as an olive branch. “I don’t think you did,” he said, and leaned his head against hers.  
  
Ginny turned her gaze back on him, smiled, and then took his hand and pointed it up into the sky. “There,” she whispered. “Sight along your finger. There it is.”  
  
Harry looked up obediently. Scraps of forgotten Astronomy lore came back to him, and he smiled. “You mean it’s not Leo?”  
  
Ginny dug a playful elbow into his side. “No. It’s Aquila. The Eagle. I looked at it when I felt as though something was dragging me down. When I looked at it, it was as though I could triumph and fly over anything.”  
  
She looked at him. And Harry had his answer.  
  
 _I have to find out the truth. At the moment, I can’t tell her anything because I don’t know it myself. I don’t know what would hurt her, what would help, or even really what the other me was doing and why he was hiding it._  
  
 _Then I’ll lay the truth before her, and we can decide what we want to do with it._  
  
Harry relaxed. It would be hard to do, but at least he had a course laid out for him. And it had to be less hard than hunting Horcruxes.  
  
“I like Leo,” he said. “Because I’m a real Gryffindor, not a Ravenclaw in disguise.”  
  
Ginny shoved him, and Harry went with it, grinning. Because it was all right again. He would  _make_ it be all right.  
  
And if he had been doing something wrong all these years, something the other him didn’t want to correct…  
  
 _Then it’s up to me to correct it. Because he’s gone now, and I’m what’s left._  
  
*  
  
Harry slowly closed the last of the  _Daily Prophets_ that Hermione had brought him. He’d asked for them so he could study the events of the last ten years, and at least try to catch up on the politics that people who weren’t as understanding as his friends would expect him to remember.  
  
But he’d had another purpose, too. He looked down at the paper, and suffered a sudden flash of nostalgia. It was like being in the library with Ron and Hermione, hunting for Nicholas Flamel, except that this time, he couldn’t tell anyone what he was doing.   
  
And he wanted them with him.  
  
Harry sighed and pushed the paper away, telling himself again that searching for Flamel was sixteen years ago and not six, the way it seemed to him. The more he repeated those words to himself, he thought, the more they would sink in.  
  
He had found most of the names in his old self’s ledger somewhere in those papers. A few were Wizengamot members or prominent Aurors, but not many. More worked at the Ministry, or owned shops in Diagon Alley, or were Healers at St. Mungo’s sometimes quoted in articles about treating wide-spread diseases, or were even involved in the improvement of racing brooms. Harry didn’t know what, exactly, connected all of them, why his old self would have chosen to blackmail them.  
  
 _Or do something else with them. You don’t_ know  _it was blackmail._  
  
Harry gave a wry smile and stood up. He was supposed to get ready for dinner with Ginny, Ron, and Hermione, when Ginny got back from covering her latest Quidditch game. He reckoned he should start.   
  
Maybe he would have to leave what had happened in the past, after all, not because he wanted to but because his old self had never written any explanation down. Why should he when he couldn’t anticipate losing his memory this way?  
  
But there was a sudden sizzling noise behind him that made Harry spin around. His first thought was that the fire had somehow leapt out of the grate and started burning the carpet, and his second thought was a curse from a Death Eater.  
  
Except there were no Death Eaters anymore, and no fire leaping out, either. There was simply a message etched in ash and soot along the top of the fireplace, clearly visible against the stone.  
  
 _Come to the Manor at once. I’ve been patient enough. DM._  
  
Harry stared at the message. He wondered if he should scrub it out, but even as he watched, the dust fell apart and whirled back into the grate.   
  
He had only a few minutes, probably, to decide what to do.  
  
Malfoy would at least be able to tell him what had happened with the potion, what meetings he and the stranger had had that hadn’t been conducted by letter, and maybe what other connections Harry had to those seemingly inoffensive people in the papers. That made it Harry’s priority.  
  
He wrote out a note to Ginny and left it on the table next to the fireplace, telling her that a Potions master had contacted him claiming to know about a potion that would fix his memories. Sending an owl would probably only result in the bird chasing her around and then returning to the house.  
  
And Harry didn’t know their owl anyway, other than the fact that her name was Gloria and she liked Ginny better than him.  
  
 _So many things I don’t know.  
_  
Harry wrapped his cloak around himself and prepared to Apparate to Malfoy Manor, a place he still remembered well enough despite the intervening years. His heart burned and twisted.  
  
 _But in an hour at most, there will be fewer of those._


	5. The Taste of Ashes

Malfoy Manor was easy to Apparate to, popping up in front of Harry the minute after he had whirled around. For a moment, he hoped that meant his memory was returning. He must have Apparated there often if he was working with Malfoy a lot and writing to him often enough to call him Draco!  
  
But then, as he took a step towards the gates and they swung open, he felt a shock of unpleasant strangeness. The grounds behind the gates looked different than he had seen them when Greyback and the other Snatchers dragged him over them. They were almost all composed of gardens now, not grass, with strange spiky plants and rambling flowers overrunning stone benches that had runes carved into them. And there were no peacocks in sight.  
  
_I’m remembering it the way it was ten years ago._  
  
Harry bowed his head and walked briskly up the path. He didn’t think standing there for a long time was a good idea, not when the gates were creaking threateningly next to him and swaying back and forth with no wind to push them.  
  
The front doors of the Manor had changed, too, although Harry had to admit his memory of them was a little hazier. These were made of some kind of wood Harry didn’t recognize, silvery and shimmering. It had dark veins in it. As Harry stood looking dubiously at it, the doors opened and hung there as if inviting him in.  
  
_Maybe Malfoy thinks they are,_ Harry thought, snorting a little in spite of himself, and stepped in. The doors closed at once, and left Harry in a quiet, cool hall with wavering torches just springing to life.  
  
“Master Potter. Welcome back.”  
  
The house-elf’s voice was as deep and quiet as the hall. Harry started as he turned around. This elf was a tall one, with grey eyes that Harry didn’t think he’d ever seen on a house-elf before.  
  
_No. I have, but I don’t remember it. Just like everything else._  
  
Harry shook his head. “I don’t know if Malfoy told you, but I don’t remember anything,” he said. “I woke up in hospital with all my memories of the past ten years lost.”  
  
The elf seemed to half-smile. “Master was telling me so,” he said calmly. “I is greeting you for myself.” He held out his arms, and Harry shrugged out of his cloak to deposit it in the elf’s arms, staring all the while. Malfoy had decided he could employ house-elves with their own minds?   
  
_At least that makes him different from his father._  
  
“Master Malfoy is waiting in his study,” the elf added over his shoulder as he ducked into a cupboard and hung the cloak up. “Master Potter is to be following me.” He started across the gleaming floor, which, if it was tiled, was covered with a material Harry had never seen before, either, as rich and silky as the doors.  
  
_I wonder if I used to know the names of all these materials. I wonder if I was used to this, once._  
  
With his skin prickling, Harry followed the house-elf around several corners and past arched doorways that seemed to lead to bigger rooms. The door they finally stood in front of was arched, too, but small. The elf knocked firmly, and then waited, listening, until the door swung open. If he heard something, it was too soft for Harry’s ears.  
  
The room beyond was all red, done in a dusky shade that made Harry think of the Gryffindor common room only second, and spilled blood first. And it didn’t have any gold, anyway. It had brown stones on the fireplace and thick, squashy chairs in a kind of subdued red-grey. The curtains on the single window, to the left, were black and pulled mostly shut.  
  
Malfoy stood in the middle of the room, holding a glass tumbler of sapphire-blue liquid that he stared at intently, not acknowledging Harry as he paused awkwardly in the doorway.  
  
Harry blinked slowly. In the middle of all this strange house and with the strange elf who bowed in front of him and then left, Malfoy was the only thing that looked the same. Oh, he had his hair pulled back in a severe style Harry supposed he hadn’t seen before—  
  
_Or I probably have, but I don’t remember it._  
  
\--but otherwise, he was the man Harry had known in school. He was still pointy and pale and he turned to face Harry with the same raised eyebrow and superior sneer threatening the edges of his mouth. Harry felt his own face growing hot in retaliation.  
  
“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” Malfoy whispered, placing the tumbler on a table next to him, “that I finally had to coax you to me instead of you coming on your own.”  
  
“I have no idea what I was writing to you about,” Harry said.  _Be blunt with everyone who wasn’t a friend_ , he thought. That way, it was their own fault if they thought he ought to be friendlier or accommodating or something. “I did find one letter that said I wanted a potion to be a better person. Did that really have something to do with it?”  
  
Malfoy closed his eyes, but it seemed to be a gesture of impatience more than anything else. The next instant, his eyes were open, and he was stalking around the table. “I suppose it only makes sense to have the same conversations over again,” he said.  
  
Harry let his wand fall into his hand. He couldn’t remember his Auror training, but they trusted him enough to carry his wand. Well, he was sure he still knew how to duel.  
  
Malfoy’s face smoothed down as he stopped and regarded Harry. Then he shook his head. “You know I won’t hurt you.”  
  
“Assume I’m exactly the same person who fought Voldemort ten years ago,” Harry said, and to his immense satisfaction, Malfoy still flinched as if Voldemort was a monster under his bed. “Because I am.”  
  
Malfoy placed his fingers together. “Then I must mourn the loss not only of time, but of some valuable experimental results.”  
  
“If you have your memories or your records of what the potion did to me, why can’t you just use those?” Harry demanded irritably. He lowered his wand, but he didn’t put it away. He still didn’t know what Malfoy was doing, exactly.   
  
“Because so much of what the potion did went on in the heart and mind,” said Malfoy. “And it was an ongoing process.” For some reason, half his mouth curled up in a smile, but only half. “There was so much only you could tell me. Though you were a stubborn bastard about doing it, I’ll give you that.” He moved casually away in the direction of the tumbler again.  
  
“Then I don’t know why you called me here.” Harry didn’t like this place. For a study, it seemed strange. It didn’t have books, and the dark-red atmosphere of the room was enough to make him feel stuffy and stifled. “Was it just to make sure that I really didn’t have any of my memories left?”  
  
Malfoy turned slightly to stare at him. “I knew that.”  
  
“What, then?” Harry folded his arms. Yes, he was hot. He turned to the left and focused his gaze straight ahead on the black curtains, hoping they would help him cool down. “It seems to me you should be happy you’re rid of the bastard I was. It doesn’t sound like I helped you much.”  
  
Malfoy spun so hard that Harry thought he was spinning to Apparate out, despite the heavy presence of spells that would prevent someone from doing that. But he just came to a stop facing Harry, with his robes swaying around him.  
  
“Is that what you think?” Malfoy whispered. “What sort of person was your old self, then?”  
  
Harry thought about mentioning his own suspicions of blackmail, but Malfoy might not have known about that, and Harry’s honesty  _could_ be limited. He settled for shrugging. “Not pleasant,” he said finally, when Malfoy’s fingers started tapping on his hip. “Overdramatic. Thoughtless about some things. Secretive. What was he corresponding with you about?”  
  
Malfoy lowered his head and gave Harry a smile that had secrets of its own in it. “I’ll tell you that if you let me cast a spell to estimate the state of your mind right now.”  
  
“What about the state of my mind?” There was no doubt about it, prickles of sweat were starting to life under Harry’s robe collar. Harry pondered whether he should show that and try to be more comfortable, or stand straight and strong in front of Malfoy. For now, strength won, but barely. “Can it tell you what my thoughts are?”  
  
Malfoy shook his head. “It lets me see what you value, what your priorities are, what you’re worrying and dreaming about. It’s a Seer’s spell, of a sort. It was developed long ago by wizards who wanted a means of guessing what their enemies would do next.”  
  
Harry half-smiled himself. “Then we’re still enemies. Thanks for confirming that.”  
  
“I would describe us as—colleagues. Theoretical colleagues. Working together to discover some of the most important secrets in magic.” Malfoy nodded as if that made sense and laid his hand on the table next to the tumbler again. “Will you let me do the spell?”  
  
Harry thought about it. He wondered what Malfoy would see, if  _he_ would see anything, whether this was worth it when Ginny must be worrying where he was and maybe even calling Healers.  
  
In the end, it was the time issue that decided him. He had only meant this to be a short conversation with Malfoy, not a long one. He looked at him and nodded.  
  
“Good,” Malfoy said, a tension going out of his shoulders that Harry hadn’t known he felt. He moved forwards and flicked his wand. A crystal bowl, small enough that it fit into his palm, appeared in his free hand.  
  
Harry looked at it, picturing Malfoy clapping it around his ear and draining the life out of him. “What does that do?”  
  
“It holds the impressions, the way a Pensieve holds memories,” Malfoy murmured. His gaze on Harry was intent and fascinated. “Shhh.” He twisted the bowl to the side and spoke another spell, which was probably the one he had told Harry about.  
  
Harry didn’t memorize the incantation. He wasn’t sure he  _heard_ it, with his eyes so steadily on Malfoy’s. Malfoy had eyes that looked as strange a grey as the odd house-elf’s in the limited light. Harry wondered what he would do when he saw Harry’s priorities.  
  
Maybe he could understand them better than Harry did himself. Even Harry wasn’t sure whether he most wanted to find out the secrets of his past or avoid them, become the man Ginny had loved or stop being him if he had been so horrible.  
  
The small crystal dish flared with light. Harry blinked, but Malfoy didn’t scold him for interrupting the spell. It must have been done. Malfoy only moved away, and cast another spell, one that made the dish turn dark as if filled with swelling shadows.  
  
Harry watched the shadows cover the light and rotate. Then Malfoy lifted the dish to his lips and sucked up the contents. Harry shuddered. It was an eerie sight, because the light continued to gleam through the skin of Malfoy’s throat as it disappeared down it.  
  
“Well?”  
  
Malfoy held up one finger. His eyes were closed, his mouth still working as he swallowed. Harry folded his arms. From too hot, the inside of the study had become almost too cold.  
  
It seemed like fifteen minutes until Malfoy opened his eyes, but the stubborn clock on the wall recorded only five. Then he turned and nodded to Harry. “I was collaborating with you on a   
potion that would make it possible for you to restrain your baser impulses.”  
  
Harry scratched his cheek, scowling. “I don’t think wanting to cause other people harm is as simple as a  _baser impulse._ Or keeping secrets all the time.”  
  
“There are different kinds of impulses,” Malfoy said. His voice and face were both shadowed as he turned and moved away towards the fireplace, and Harry again shivered. It was like listening to a voice speaking out of the cave. “Perhaps I should have said that these are  _base,_ not baser. You sought something that would change the very foundation of your character. You had grown sick of what you were, what you were doing.” He cast Harry a sly glance over his shoulder.  
  
At least, it looked sly. Harry turned away himself this time. The black curtains revealed a glimpse of sunlight beyond them, and reminded him that not all the world was as dark as Malfoy’s study. “Then I thought these were huge problems.”  
  
“You did,” Malfoy said. Calm. Sadistic, maybe. But Harry thought it was likelier Malfoy just didn’t care about him or his problems that much. “Still, it was an interesting case. You were convinced that certain things you did—such as colleting secrets for blackmail—was wrong, but you couldn’t seem to refrain from doing them.”  
  
Harry closed his eyes. So it had been blackmail, and Malfoy knew about it. He wasn’t sure which confirmation was worse. “What else did I tell you I wanted to stop doing?”  
  
“Looking with desire at other people besides your girlfriend. Feeling the impulse to torture wizards who had tortured or murdered others. Whether or not you did that, I don’t know,” Malfoy added, before Harry could ask. “I’ll only say that no hint of it ever made its way into the papers. Instead, they praised you for your mercy.”  
  
Harry would once have been happy that he’d learned to lie to the papers. Then maybe they would leave him alone. But it sounded like he hadn’t done that. Instead, he had made them think that he was just the sort of celebrity they had always dreamed he was.  
  
_Why? I don’t understand this. I can’t imagine talking about dating Ginny in front of all those people, or sleeping with men, or laughing along at reporters’ jokes. What happened?_  
  
That was probably one of the things Malfoy couldn’t tell him. Harry turned to face him and injected casualness back into his voice. “Anything else?”  
  
Malfoy had retreated into shadow. The firelight gleamed only on his hands, ablaze with silver rings, as he picked up the tumbler and turned it back and forth. “Yes, as a matter of fact. You said that you sometimes terrified people. On purpose.”  
  
Harry shook his head a little. “Are you talking about when I wanted to torture people? Or something else?” He sort of dreaded thinking what in the world “something else” might refer to, but he had to know.  
  
Ginny and all the other people who had loved the old Harry had only known half of his life. Or a portion of it. Harry had to wonder how many secrets were out there that even Malfoy hadn’t known.  
  
Malfoy moved a step closer. His eyes were intense enough that Harry shivered and glanced away. “Not the torture. You spoke about the torture as a separate problem, and never as if you had done it, that I know of. You only felt the impulse.”  
  
“That’s as bad as doing it.”  
  
Malfoy laughed, the sound hollow. “Speaks someone who never lived with the Dark Lord in his house.”  
  
“I had him in my head,” said Harry. “That was enough.” He turned around and saw Malfoy staring at him, but there wasn’t time to figure out what the cause was. “Tell me what you mean. I let you look into my mind, and you said you would tell me what I wanted the potion for.”  
  
Malfoy studied him one moment more, then nodded, then glanced aside as if he wanted Harry to look at his profile for some reason. “You used to go to Diagon Alley at night and frighten people on purpose. You used illusions for some of it, I know. And you pretended to be in danger more than once. I think a few of those stories for the papers were made up. You said you liked hearing the screams when people were afraid for you.”  
  
Harry bowed his head. He felt the sick truth of that slamming into him, ripping through any of the excuses he might have managed to use that would say his old self wasn’t guilty in the sense Malfoy was painting him.  
  
But no. There was no way to pretend that, not any more. And instead of worrying about how he would live up to the man his friends and Ginny remembered, Harry had to wonder what else he had done that was even worse.  
  
“He shouldn’t have come to you for a potion,” Harry said harshly, digging his hands into his robe pockets. “He should have bloody controlled himself. He must not have really wanted to change, or he would have  _managed_ it.”  
  
Malfoy jumped as though someone had stabbed him with lightning. Harry stared at him. “What?” he added, when Malfoy didn’t seem disposed to part with the information.  
  
“That’s exactly what I told him,” Malfoy whispered. He sounded light-headed. “Why the potion didn’t work despite repeated experiments. Until the will existed to change, the potion couldn’t help him.” He moved towards Harry, staring at his face as if Harry was hiding all the secrets of the world behind his eyes. “How did you know that?”  
  
“It’s obvious,” Harry said. “He shouldn’t have come to you in the first place. He should have—” He shook his head again. “It’s sort of like not being able to remember you drank, and only having a hangover,” he muttered. “He was the one who had all the fun, and I’m the one left to clean up his mess.”  
  
“Potter,” Malfoy breathed.  
  
Harry couldn’t look at him. “Send me an accounting of what I owe you, if I still do. Good-bye, Malfoy.”  
  
He strode off, barely remembering to stop at the cupboard near the door and grab his cloak. The strange house-elf appeared again and tried to help him on with it, but Harry brushed past him and out the door, shaking his head.  
  
The air beyond Malfoy Manor was clean, full of the smell and sound of rain. Harry walked through it without attempting an Impervious Charm until he reached the point where he could Apparate.  
  
Maybe, somehow, that was the first beginning of the purification he would have to try to do.


	6. The Waters of Parting

The dinner hadn’t gone well. Harry knew that as much from his friends’ expressive faces as from the irritated glances Ginny kept sending him, and the awkward pauses in the conversation, and how Ron and Hermione would sometimes turn aside to whisper to each other.  
  
He was sorry. But his heart was almost solid, it was so heavy. This was only one more sorrow on top of all of them.  
  
He stood in Hermione and Ron’s unfamiliar kitchen, staring at an unfamiliar photograph of the three of them on the wall. Hermione had said it was when they went on holiday to Switzerland. To Harry, it just looked like there were high mountains in the background.  
  
 _He_ had never been to Switzerland.  
  
 _And maybe I never will,_ Harry thought, numb in a way that felt like shock.  _Ron and Hermione might not want to go back if they’ve been once._  
  
“It’s hard, isn’t it?”  
  
Harry blinked and turned back to face Hermione, who was splashing the plates under water. Harry thought she could have cleaned them in an instant with a charm, and then told himself not to be a fool. Obviously she’d come in here to talk to him, and he thought he heard Ron and Ginny’s voices rise as if they were arguing.  
  
 _Or filling up artificial holes in the conversation,_ Harry thought as he moved towards Hermione and reached out silently with a towel. Hermione handed him a plate, and Harry started drying it, staring intently down at his hands. At least this was something he still remembered how to do.  
  
He remembered how to do it from Privet Drive, not from his friends’ house, and that was a fact that had to sting. But it had a lot of competition at the moment, so Harry wasn’t sure it actually managed.  
  
“Yeah, it is,” Harry finally said, when he realized that he didn’t have anywhere to go to escape the conversation, and Hermione had paused with a soapy cup in her hand. “I don’t know who I am anymore.” He started to say something else, but his throat was choked with all sorts of emotions, as thick as the suds. And hadn’t he said enough? He ended up shaking his head.  
  
“You’re our friend,” Hermione said quietly. Her hands returned to scrubbing.  
  
“And what does that  _mean_?” Harry asked her roughly. “I don’t remember proposing to Ginny.”  _And I’m starting to be afraid that the old me only did it to cover something up, or because everyone expected him to._ That was the kind of thing he couldn’t say, though. “I don’t remember anything about your  _kids_. Merlin, Hermione. That’s a  _huge_ part of your life. How can you want to share it with someone who  _should_ remember being Uncle Harry, and doesn’t?”  
  
Belatedly, he realized she was holding out a cup to him and wouldn’t move it. He took it and wiped roughly along the rim. The glass sipped from his hold and shattered on the floor. Harry cursed and leaned on the sink, eyes closed.  
  
Ron and Ginny’s conversation had stopped, but Hermione called out, “It’s okay,” and they went back to talking. Hermione kept her eyes on Harry as she bent down and cast a  _Reparo_ on the glass. “You know that it can’t be exactly the way it used to be,” she said. “Even if you got all your memories back, you would still have been changed by losing them.”  
  
Harry spun on her. “Then what’s the point of having me look at so many Pensieves and bringing me here and pretending everything’s going to be all right?”  
  
“‘All right’ and ‘just the same’ are different.” Hermione’s eyes were disconcertingly direct as she brushed hair out of them. “If you think you can’t be the man Ginny loves anymore, you should tell her. That’s the only thing I think you utterly have to do. Ron and I, we’ll get used to the new Harry and love him, too.”  
  
Harry looked down at the floor. “Even if I’m the same person  _he_ was ten years ago, and you have ten years’ worth of experience?”  
  
“Yes.” Hermione’s hand came into view holding out another glass. Harry accepted it and dried it more carefully this time and put it down on the counter. “Because friendship is different from the kind of love you shared with Ginny.” Harry opened his mouth, but Hermione added, “And I do think that you and  _him_ are the same person, Harry. You need to start thinking of him that way. It’s unhealthy to do otherwise.”  
  
Harry flushed and wished he had a shell like a turtle he could retreat into. “I don’t—Hermione, I’m not sure that I’ll ever go back to being what I was.”  
  
“I just said that was okay. Except for Ginny.” Hermione moved her head towards the dining room again. “Are you going to tell her?”  
  
“How  _can_  I?” Harry whispered. He wanted to ask if Hermione knew about Rob and the relationship he’d apparently had with him, but he did think she would have told him if she knew when he was still in hospital. It was exactly the kind of secret Hermione would have thought he should still have the option of keeping from Ginny if he wanted to. “She’s already waited five years for me, and then we had five years together. Wouldn’t telling her that I can’t turn into the old Harry again be like tossing her out on her ear and telling her that she’s wasted a decade?”  
  
“No,” said Hermione at once. “It would be adapting to bad circumstances the best way you can.” She reached out and squeezed Harry’s hand again. “Listen. I care about _both_ of you. You’re my friend. Ginny’s my sister-in-law. You should both be happy.”  
  
Harry nodded, listening, because he could sense a “but” coming up.  
  
“But,” said Hermione, and Harry allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction, “that happiness won’t come from you trying to force yourself into a role you don’t fit. Ginny might  _think_ she would be happy if you acted exactly like your old self, even if you hated it, but she wouldn’t. She’s a better person than that. She’d notice eventually, and you’d resent her for making the deception necessary, and it would all come out in the end anyway.”  
  
“Probably true,” Harry whispered. His head and heart still ached. He had hoped Hermione would give him advice, something he could do, but it didn’t sound like she would.  
  
Or  _could_. Harry was left in the same position of deciding on his own whether he should tell Ginny about things like his hidden ledger and papers and life.  
  
“So tell her.” Hermione reached out and rested her hand on his shoulder, and her eyes were kind. “I can see one way that you’re already changing.”  
  
“Yeah?” Harry looked at her.  
  
“You don’t talk about Auror training,” said Hermione. “That ambition doesn’t exist for you anymore, does it? That’s something you ought to tell Kingsley.” She hesitated, and then added, “Please don’t answer if it makes you uncomfortable, but…where did it go? I know that you were anxious to be an Auror right after the Battle of Hogwarts, and I thought that was the way you woke up.”  
  
“I did it already,” said Harry. “I lived through that part of my past and achieved what I wanted to achieve, even if I don’t remember it. I know that doesn’t make much sense,” he added hastily, when he saw the way Hermione blinked and stared at him. “But that’s the way it feels.”  
  
“No, that makes  _perfect_ sense,” said Hermione fiercely, and hugged him. “Now you need to find something else to do with your life.”  
  
“Something,” Harry echoed.  
  
“You’ll find it.” Hermione nodded, stepped back, and patted him firmly on the shoulder. “Now, go tell Ginny and Kingsley.”  
  
*  
  
Kingsley’s office was shut until tomorrow, and Harry knew he wouldn’t be able to talk to him for a while, anyway. He’d have to go through secretaries and the like. That was the reason he gave himself for telling Ginny first.  
  
And it wasn’t a bad idea, until the spit dried up in his mouth as he stood facing her across their kitchen, and Ginny’s voice got quieter and quieter the way it had in that Pensieve memory of their argument she’d shown him, and Harry realized he didn’t know if he had the courage to do this, after all. He tried to picture Hermione’s face and hear her encouraging words, but that was less powerful than real disappointment.  
  
“You had no right to pretend that you would try to be the man who loved me, and then stop trying.” Ginny moved forwards a fluid step, and Harry tensed. But there was nothing within reach that she could throw, and she didn’t have her wand drawn, either. Harry thought those things were positive. “You knew all along that you wouldn’t do it. Didn’t you?”  
  
“I told you I was different,” said Harry. He wanted to sound rational, but he just sounded defensive. He felt like an eighteen-year-old kid arguing with—a woman. Even seeing the memories couldn’t tell him how his old self used to do it.  
  
Then again, he didn’t know how his old self had committed blackmail and maybe infidelity, either. Being a different person  _might_ be a good thing.  
  
That thought gave Harry courage. He looked at Ginny and continued, “I really wanted to be the man who loved you. But I can’t be.”  
  
“Why not?” Ginny was suddenly staring at him appealingly, and Harry wondered if he’d imagined the danger in her a minute before. Not that she  _wasn’t_ dangerous, but she might not be actually getting ready to attack him. “You’re as gentle and dignified as he is, when you aren’t thinking about it. I know you have the same ambitions about taking care of people.”  
  
 _Oh, really?_ Harry wanted to howl with laughter. But laughter wouldn’t solve anything for either of them. It wouldn’t even ease his feelings, not really.  
  
He had to press through this.  
  
“I can’t  _remember_ being like that,” Harry admitted. “I don’t know how I got to be like that. But it must have something to do with those five years you waited for me.” This was the best chance he would get to ask Ginny about those years, he thought. “Do you know if I—dated anyone else during then?”  
  
“There were always rumors,” said Ginny. “But you know that. You read the papers.”  
  
Harry stared at her and spread his hands. “But I don’t  _remember how much of that was rumors,_ Gin. That’s why I’m asking you.”  
  
Ginny closed her eyes. “It’s a bloody impertinent question to ask, if you think about it.”  
  
Harry winced. “Fine. I just—fine.” It had seemed that Ginny was the one he was closest to, the one who knew him best, even better than Ron and Hermione. But it was all too obvious that she didn’t know all of him. Rob and the business with Malfoy and the collecting money angle.  
  
Harry thought again of the memory of her whispering to him in bed. He wondered how much Ginny had felt shut out of his life over the first five years, and how much she’d resented him for it.  
  
Harry felt another surge of irritation towards the stranger. If he’d been less bloody reserved with Ginny, Harry could have benefited from it right now.  
  
“But I know you didn’t go out much,” Ginny continued reluctantly. “You spent more time with your fellow Auror trainees than anything, and then with Ron and Hermione. Ron told me once that half your dates got interrupted because of missions, anyway.” She glanced at Harry with fiery eyes. “That’s something I want to change when you go back for Auror training. I know it’s intense, but you have to learn to make time for us. The way he did.”  
  
 _Here it comes._ He would have to tell someone before Kingsley, after all. Harry braced himself. “I’m not going back to Auror training, Gin.”  
  
Ginny stared at him, then closed her mouth without answering. She turned her back, though, and looked out the wide window in the kitchen that usually showed a view of Hogwarts. Harry wondered, wearily as always and with no way of knowing, why his old self had chosen that view. Ginny said that he’d been the one to install that enchanted window.  
  
It was a view of Hogwarts as if seen from the branches of trees in the Forbidden Forest, in a dark, brooding, moonless night with hardly any stars. Harry suspected his old self had his reasons.  
  
 _And I might or might not find them sympathetic._  
  
“If you’re not an Auror anymore,” Ginny finally said, voice low and final, “what are you going to  _be_?”  
  
“For now? Calm. Trying to get my head in order.” Harry took a deep breath. “There’s too many things that I can’t reconcile myself to. I either have to try, or I have to try and give up hopes of the reconciliation. And right now—there’s too many parties and dinners and celebrations and  _meetings,_ Gin. I can’t get my feet back under me that way. I need to  _think_.”  
  
“I would have let you have that,” said Ginny, “if you’d let me know you  _needed_ it.”  
  
Harry nodded and reached over to pat her arm. She let him do it, although she was still turned to look out the window. “I know. But I thought I was going to be able to take up my old life again. I can’t. There’s too much I don’t know.”  
  
“And some things you just don’t want to take up again.”  
  
“That’s right. Like Auror training.”  
  
Ginny turned around and asked the one thing Harry had hoped she wouldn’t ask. “And me?”  
  
Harry looked at her and finally spoke the words that he should have spoken first out, flat out, the way Hermione had told him he should. “The man you loved is dead. I don’t—I feel more about you the way I did at the end of the Battle of Hogwarts than anything else. And kind of intimidated.”  
  
From the way she blinked and pursed her lips, that hadn’t been what Ginny had expected to hear, but she didn’t look entirely upset, either. “Why intimidated?”  
  
“You’re an adult,” Harry said. “You have ten years’ worth of memories on me, like Ron and Hermione do. And you’ve grown up and found a career you enjoyed and one you can still  _do_.” He closed his eyes and shook his head, hoping she didn’t hear the envy in his voice. There were some things it still wouldn’t do him any good to admit. “You seem so much more mature than I do. I can’t—live up to that.”  
  
“And the expectations I had of you as my partner?”   
  
Harry nodded and opened his eyes. “Partner, lover, potential fiancé. There’s so much that’s gone. So much you need from me and aren’t going to get.”  
  
Ginny faced him now, and she looked as indomitable as a stone pillar in a sandstorm. “I meant it when I said that I’d wait for you, Harry. To get your head in order along with everything else. I did it once, for five years. I can do it again.”  
  
“How  _can_ you?” That was the most bewildering thing to Harry, he thought. Probably more bewildering than how he had become the person it seemed he had been, or why he had taken five years to decide he was in love with Ginny. “What let you kept hoping for five years instead of giving up on him—me and finding someone else?”  
  
Ginny shut her eyes. “Because I’m that much in love with you.”  
  
Harry shook for a second, and then closed his hands into fists. Along with everything else, the curse had stolen his chance for a family from him, he thought. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that he would have married Ginny.  
  
He couldn’t have changed so much that he would have given up on the ideal of someone who loved him for himself.  
  
“This time,” Harry forced himself to say, “it might not be five years. It might be forever. Can you live with that?”  
  
Ginny opened her eyes, and there was a second of the most intense gaze that Harry thought he’d ever exchanged with anyone, counting Voldemort. Then Ginny said, “For right now, I’ll wait. We’ll see what happens with later.”  
  
Harry hugged her, as silent and intense as the gaze had been. Then he turned away and began packing to leave.  
  
He would go to Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. He knew from Ginny and Hermione’s memories that it was still his, although shut up for a long time, and Kreacher still took care of it. He would have to explain things to Kreacher more than once, probably. Hermione said he was old now, and should have been retired, except to Kreacher “retirement” had meant having his head hung on the wall. Harry—the old Harry—had refused that supposed solution to the problem, Hermione had said.  
  
 _I don’t know why, as capable of shitty stuff as he was the rest of the time,_ Harry thought, and then managed to close his eyes for a second and  _choose_ what clothes he was going to take with him, and which other accessories. He had to deal with the fact that Number Twelve probably didn’t have shampoo and a toothbrush waiting for him.  
  
By the time he was done, Ginny was watching him from the door of the bedroom. Harry came into her arms, and she kissed his cheek.  
  
“Go and find out what you need to find out,” she said. “I’ll wait.”  
  
Harry touched her shoulder one more time, and then turned and tossed Floo powder into the fireplace. “Number Twelve Grimmauld Place!” he called clearly.  
  
The last thing he saw before he left was Ginny standing in one place, as clear-eyed and straight-backed as a soldier.


	7. Secrets in the Shadows

Harry opened his eyes slowly. He’d tried to spend time meditating since he got to Number Twelve. It seemed like it would be a good way to soothe both his overwhelming frustration and his racing mind.  
  
But he always ended up drifting off to sleep. The cushion that Kreacher had provided him was just too damn comfortable, even if it was also on the floor of the library.  
  
Harry stood up, sighing, and cast another glance at the books. He supposed he could try reading some more about memory loss. He’d asked Kreacher to bring him every book on memories and spells that affected them in the library, only to be staring at teetering piles of thick tomes five minutes later. The ancestral Blacks had really liked cursing people with spells that affected their brains, it seemed.  
  
Or he could Floo his friends.  
  
Harry cringed. No. After the fiasco of his conversation with Kingsley this morning, when he had tried over and over again to explain why he wasn’t coming back to Auror training and Kingsley hadn’t comprehended it any of his seventeen tries… He was ready for a little privacy.  
  
He’d just settled in a thick chair with an equally thick book when the door opened and Kreacher came into the library bearing a silver tray. Harry blinked and stared at the things on it. There was an empty bowl, a small pile of what looked like salt, and a silver hulking thing that appeared to be a cross between a teapot and a snake.  
  
“What’s that, Kreacher?” Harry waved his hand at the teapot.  
  
Kreacher set the tray down on the floor and gave him a look as old as the house. “That is being Master’s stimulant, Master.”  
  
Harry winced. Kreacher had called him “Master” since he got here. “What stimulant? Tea would be fine. And what are the bowl and the salt for?”  
  
“Master’s ways are not being for elves to know.” Kreacher put his hands behind his back and stepped away from the tray.  
  
Harry wanted to groan. He did lift his wand and cast a few spells on the monstrosity that ought to tell him what kind of “stimulant” was in it.  
  
Sparks drifted upwards from the thing, and Harry jerked his head back as an evil smell rose to assault his nostrils, too. It smelled like—well, burned sugar was the least of it. There was rotten eggs in there, and burned milk, too, and the same kind of scent that used to come from Hagrid’s hut when he was dealing with sick animals. Harry wondered what in hell it was, and why he’d been drinking it. Or smoking it. Or dousing it with salt and inhaling it. Whatever it was.  
  
But the spells had produced no answer he recognized.  
  
Harry closed his eyes again as he thought about that. He had come to terms with the fact that his memories would never come back, but this was more—and worse—than that. This was the fact that the lost memories still had the ability to ambush him, and then he would sit here worrying about what he didn’t know, whether he would ever be able to actually  _trust_ himself.  
  
How many lost caches of secrets were waiting out there.  
  
But Harry was tired of sitting around and worrying about what kind of person he had been. He had a confidant he could trust now, at least. He opened his eyes. “Kreacher, did my—old self hide any letters here? Any important papers? Did he entrust you with any secrets?”  
  
Kreacher frowned at him and squinted hard enough that his eyes seemed about to disappear entirely into the folds of his face. “Are you or are you not Master?” he asked, and the folds grew deeper.  
  
“I’m both him and not him,” Harry said, which felt like the most honest answer at the moment. “But I can’t remember where I put my secrets, and I can’t even remember what this was or why I drank it.” He nodded at the teapot-snake. “I need you to help me.”  
  
Kreacher seemed about ready to float off the floor, the way that Harry remembered Dobby sometimes being when Harry had asked for his help. “Kreacher is not being retired!” he said, and skipped around the library. “Kreacher is helping!”  
  
“Yes,” said Harry. “And I need you to tell me if I hid papers in this house. Or this room. Or anywhere that you know about, really.”  
  
Kreacher bowed his head. “Master is hiding papers in the lower shelves.” Harry didn’t know what he meant, but then Kreacher flipped one hand over, and the lowest part of the bookshelves where most of the tomes on memory magic had come from slid open. The panels seemed to disappear smoothly into the walls, which had probably been enlarged to hold them. Harry shook his head a little.  _Magic._ “And Master is talking often of the secrets that are being hidden in Gringotts.”  
  
Harry felt a single vibration travel through him, as though he was a gong someone had hit. Of course. That would explain why he hadn’t found more. Not that there wasn’t more, but either it was too sensitive or old Harry hadn’t had the room in his house.  
  
“Would the goblins talk to me about those secrets even if I can’t remember what they are?” he asked.  
  
Kreacher gave him another ancient look. “Goblins is being loyal to the blood and the money,” he said. “Not the memories.”  
  
Harry supposed that had to be true, or no one could ever claim a vault they hadn’t known about, the way he’d had to when he went to Gringotts with Hagrid for the first time. He smiled at Kreacher. “Thank you, Kreacher.” He put the tray aside and started to stand up.  
  
“Master is not wanting his stimulant?” Kreacher sounded anxious.  
  
Harry hesitated once and looked at the stimulant. He’d been doing well enough without it. He could have tried it just to see what would happen, but he hoped he could  _act_ less recklessly than he had during the war even if he felt no older than he had been during it.  
  
“Floo Draco Malfoy and ask him if he can stop by this afternoon,” he said, suddenly inspired. “Make it clear that I’ll pay him for his time.”  
  
He hadn’t wanted to deal with Malfoy again, but on the other hand, it was the safest way to find out. And Malfoy ought to take money for something that was unconnected with the experimental potions work Harry had been having him do.  
  
 _Probably_ unconnected.  
  
Harry shook his head. He was still overwhelmed by the evidence of his hidden life, but at least now he stood some chance of uncovering what exactly he’d hidden, and from sources that wouldn’t reveal it to his friends.  
  
 _Even if I have to come clean eventually,_ Harry thought, as he spun his wand in a  _Scourgify_  to get his robes clean of dust,  _I’d rather do it when I know exactly what I’m supposed to be making up for._  
  
*  
  
The goblins didn’t blink an eye when Harry walked into the bank, although some of the human customers turned around and stared hard enough that Harry wanted to cringe. There was one in particular, a tall wizard with a long silver beard and hair to match, who kept looking at Harry with wide eyes. Harry tried to make sure he was standing with his back to that wizard when he spoke to the goblins.  
  
The one who leaned forwards to study his key nodded and looked up. “You’ll want to speak to Harzok if you’re retrieving things from your vault,” he said.  
  
Harry half-relaxed as the goblin with golden eyes who seemed to be named Harzok came up to him. Ten years had obviously been enough to ease the tensions between him and the goblins, although Harry’s most vivid memory was still breaking out of Gringotts on the back of a dragon.  
  
The cart ride down to his vault was as thrilling as ever, although mostly silent. The cart bounced off the tracks at one point and Harry had to hang onto the side, but he found he was grinning as he did it. If he died from this, at least it would be in an honest way and in pursuit of an honest goal.  
  
He just didn’t understand what in the world his old self had been  _thinking,_ what would have got him into blackmail and all the rest of it. When had he changed his preferences about the way he did things, let alone what he wanted to do?  
  
But he didn’t have time to think about it, because the cart had stopped. Harry sat up, then realized that they weren’t in front of the vault he was used to. Of course, maybe things had changed in the past ten years and he’d started using the main Black vault, but none of the goblins had mentioned it.   
  
Then he realized they weren’t in front of a vault at all; the cart was just sitting in the middle of a split in the tracks. Harry turned slowly towards Harzok, his hand on his wand, in case those ten years hadn’t healed the tensions after all.  
  
Harzok, though, was looking at him with those intense yellow eyes and drumming his fingers on the side of the cart, not exactly threatening. “Which vault did you want to go to?” he asked.  
  
“There’s only one main Black vault, I thought?” Harry vaguely remembered Sirius saying something about that, or thought he did. The few Black heirs left had condensed everything into one vault as the family members dwindled.  
  
“There is only one main Black vault,” Harzok agreed, with a nod. “But there is the Shadow Vault that Mr. Potter established eight years ago.”  
  
 _Eight years ago._ It was the first indication Harry had had of a timeframe, and he knew he couldn’t pass the chance up. “The Shadow Vault, then,” he said, heart pounding so fast that his throat hurt. “And what’s the difference between the Shadow Vaults and the regular ones?”  
  
The cart had turned down a track that was so steep it left them almost in freefall, and Harry had a hard time hearing Harzok as he answered. But some words came through clearly. “No one outside yourself can know you have a Shadow Vault. Your tongue would cramp up if you tried to tell them. The bank denies their existence outside this level.”  
  
Harry almost asked how Kreacher could know about it, but then realized Kreacher had never mentioned that kind of thing. He’d only talked about the “secrets” Harry had hidden in Gringotts, and for all he knew, they might be in the regular Black vault instead of somewhere else.  
  
The track turned into a long, spiraling swoop, and then they swept through a ringing curtain of what felt like silver chimes. Harry saw something long and thin pass overhead as the cart also began to slow down. When he looked up, he saw nothing solid, only a swarming mass of shadow changing shape until it resembled a dragon.  
  
“It’s not wise to pay too much attention to the Guardians,” Harzok’s voice said, abruptly enough to startle him.  
  
 _Guardians with an audible capital G, at that,_ Harry thought, and nodded his understanding. He watched as the vault doors next to them started to become visible. All of them were made of a dull grey material that could have been lead, although Harry wouldn’t have bet on it, and each one had a dial of shadow in the exact center.  
  
Finally, the cart jerked to a stop, and Harzok stepped out. “This is it,” he said.  
  
Harry stepped out beside him, only to see the shadow dial in the center of the vault animate and turn towards him. It was another creature, he thought, and froze for a second before Harzok murmured, “They lock with the unique vibration of the owner’s pain. You must hurt yourself briefly to get past it.”  
  
Harry grimaced and wondered for a second whether even his pain responses would be the same after he had changed, or erased, ten years. But he ended up putting his wand to his arm and murmuring a small Cutting Charm, because it seemed like the simplest way to get what the Guardian wanted.  
  
The blood flowed, the pain tore through him, and the shadow-creature climbed off the middle of the vault. Harry knocked the delicately-balanced door open with his palm, and peered through.  
  
The vault was a small, triangular floor hemmed in by stacks of shelves. Most of them were empty. Gazing up at the ones that weren’t, though, Harry made out several books,  _more_ stacks of bound letters, and a Pensieve.  
  
Harry swallowed, and felt something stir to life inside him. Yes, watching others’ memories from outside wasn’t enough to tell him what he had been feeling at the time or what had driven some of his decisions. But watching his own might be.  
  
*  
  
Harry stepped through the front door of Number Twelve, carefully balancing the Pensieve on one hip. Although there was a flat, net-like cloth stretched across it that should keep the memory-liquid inside, Harry still didn’t want to take the chance.  
  
“ _Potter_. I’ve been waiting for an hour.”  
  
All his precautions were almost for nothing as Malfoy swanned out of the kitchen. Harry managed to put the Pensieve down instead of dropping it, though. He took a slow breath that he hoped tamped down his irritation, and said, “I had some business to take care of, Malfoy.” He laid the shrunken package of books and letters down on a shelf beside the door and added, “I did say I would pay you for your time.”  
  
“I’ve examined that stimulant, as you called it,” Malfoy announced. He was wearing his hair bound back in a long braid that grazed his collar today, and a diamond pin that seemed to reflect the light in inconvenient, eye-hurting ways no matter how Harry moved his head. “It’s not just that.” He gave Harry a scolding stare.  
  
“Kreacher called it that, not me,” Harry said. “ _I_ didn’t call it anything, because I have no idea what it is.”  
  
Malfoy turned abruptly away and stared at the wall. Harry stared, too, wondering if there was too much dirt there for His Majesty’s liking, and then if Malfoy was about to have a conniption and storm off.  
  
What Malfoy did, though, was turn back with an uncomfortable expression on his face. “You really remember  _nothing_ , do you?” he whispered.  
  
“No,” said Harry, and managed not to snap because then Malfoy might leave and Harry had no idea what another Potions master might say about the drug. Or stimulant, or whatever. Malfoy at least had the advantage of not having revealed Harry’s illegal activities to everyone. “I told you that already.”  
  
Malfoy studied him one more time, then nodded. “I thought you might have been faking memory loss to get away from certain realizations about yourself,” he said. “But you’re not. Fine. Come into the kitchen.”  
  
Harry again bit his tongue, this time to tell Malfoy that  _he_ should be doing the inviting because it was  _his_ house, and went into the kitchen. He set the Pensieve out of the way, on the counter. It was an effort not to hover protectively over it.  
  
But although Malfoy glanced at the Pensieve, he didn’t seem that interested in it. He focused on Harry instead. “The liquid in that pot suspends inhibitions.”  
  
Harry blinked. “So it’s some kind of love potion?” That was the only category of potions he could remember immediately that made people do embarrassing things in public.  
  
Malfoy closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. “No,” he whispered. “It lowers the barriers of—conscience is an inexact and inelegant way to describe it, but it’s the word most people would use. It’s supposed to make the user objective, suspend them in a clear grey place where they can think of the best course of action without being bothered by emotional considerations.”  
  
“Or moral ones.” Harry said. He bowed his head.  _What kind of criminal was I?_  
  
“Yes,” Malfoy said. He kept quiet until Harry opened his eyes and looked at him. Once again, he looked uncomfortable. “It’s extremely complicated to make, and not in much demand. Your house-elf said you took it most days you were here.”  
  
Harry shrugged. “I have no idea how often I was here.”  
  
“It sounds like it was at least several times a week.”  
  
 _When did I get the time off from work? Or was I coming here when I was supposedly at work and not telling Ginny?_ That seemed likelier to Harry the longer he thought about it.  
  
He made a decision then. He  _had_ to know more, and while his brain damage might prevent the memories from ever returning, there was a Potions brewer right in front of him who had already shown his willingness to use Harry as an experimental subject.  
  
“Malfoy.”   
  
“Yes?” Malfoy sat up in his chair, with alert but opaque eyes.  
  
“I have to know what the hell I was doing,” Harry said bluntly. “I know that you don’t know all of it.” Malfoy simply inclined his head. “But I want you to try to make an experimental potion that would—is there a potion that would let me travel back in time? Not physically, but with a kind of spiritual presence or something?”  
  
Malfoy’s face shuttered. “Where did you read about that, Potter? Is it a memory returning after all?” He sounded accusing.  
  
“I don’t know. Maybe some Potions book at Hogwarts.” Harry gestured randomly, not taking his eyes off Malfoy. “Look, it’s not that important. I have to know. I’ve already found four places I’ve hidden secrets, five if you count your house, and I don’t know how any of them connect or what was going on. And you’re my best hope.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because you’re not going to question why I want the potion,” Harry said. He continued hastily, because Malfoy appeared to be opening his mouth to say that there were other people who wouldn’t question Harry, either, not with his memory loss so well-known. “And because you’re a little unscrupulous, and willing to experiment, and you’ll accept my money. Will you do it?”  
  
Malfoy looked off to the side. “It’s dangerous.”  
  
“I’ll prepare you a safe space and all the ingredients you need.”  
  
Malfoy abruptly swung to face him. “To  _you,_ idiot.”  
  
Harry waited until he was absolutely sure he had Malfoy’s full attention, and then he said, “The first morning I woke up without my memories, I wished I’d died instead. And now, I have to make up for mistakes that I don’t remember making, for motives that I don’t remember having. I can’t have any kind of life until I do that. My life is already forfeit, Malfoy. Pawned. This way, I’d at least have a chance at a different kind of future.”  
  
Malfoy clenched his hand on the table, but his eyes never wavered from Harry’s. “The potion is going to take blood, pain, and skin from you,” he said. “Among other things.”  
  
Harry simply nodded.  
  
“I want to find out who brewed that— _stimulant_ for you,” Malfoy said, tone still like icy crystal. “And I want to take any you still have with me.”  
  
Harry nodded.  
  
“You can’t reveal anything about me to your friends. Or that we’re working together.”  
  
Harry nodded.  
  
Malfoy sighed a little through his nose. “You want this, don’t you?” he asked softly, seemingly convinced. “More than anything.”  
  
“Yes,” Harry said simply.  
  
Malfoy nodded in turn. “Good. Then we’ll begin.”  
  
Harry felt something warm and bright and alien unfolding in him, and it took him a moment to recognize it as hope. 


	8. Pain

Harry was so buried in a book that had promised to tell him about the kinds of potions Malfoy wanted to use, he almost didn’t hear the Floo chime. In the end, Kreacher was the one who came up to tell him he had a visitor. Harry sighed and laid the book on the chair next to him. He reckoned it was Hermione, come to ask him how he was after his breakup with Ginny, or Ron, come to ask him why they’d broken up.  
  
But he didn’t expect a stranger’s face in the Floo when he went into the sitting room where it was. Harry froze at once, his hand on his wand. Had someone pierced his defenses? The last thing he needed was a nosy reporter or fellow Auror.  
  
“Harry.” The man was leaning forwards so far that he looked as if he’d fall through the fire and onto the carpet. “I need to know what this means.”  
  
Harry shook his head. “I don’t know who you are,” he said. “If I knew you when I was a—an Auror, then I don’t recognize you now. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is,” he added, when he saw how the stranger was trying to stare him down.  
  
He’d almost said,  _when I was a blackmailer._ He would have to watch that. Yes, he wanted to be honest and make up for his mistakes, but the time for that to happen wasn’t yet.  
  
“I should have realized.” The man touched his hair as though he was in the habit of tugging on it, like Harry, when he was agitated. But he lowered his hand without touching it. Instead, keeping one eye on Harry all the time as if he would run away, he said, “My name is Rob Haynes. I see at least  _that_ much is familiar to you.”  
  
Harry cursed himself for jumping. If he’d acted cool and sorry and nothing else, maybe Haynes would have gone away.  
  
 _I half want to call him Rob, with all the mentions he got in that stupid journal._  
  
But Harry wasn’t going to have any kind of conversation with the man who he might have had a relationship with, and who he might have betrayed his wife with, and who he had almost begun to hope was dead. He managed a tight, probably unconvincing smile. “I saw your face in some photographs.”  
  
“Then you know why it’s important we talk.”  
  
Harry shook his head violently. “No, I  _don’t._ I know that we were friends in Auror training, and we must have been friends for a while after that, or I wouldn’t have photographs of you. But I don’t know what happened. What happened to end it, or why it happened in the first place, or why it continued.”  
  
He was about to go further, to say that he couldn’t afford to make his heart vulnerable right now, when he was in the middle of all this reconnection with his memories, but Rob cut into his words. “It continued because we fell in love.”  
  
Harry closed his eyes.  
  
“Both of us,” said Rob, his voice steady now. Maybe he had great courage, Harry thought. It would explain some of the reasons Harry had admired him. “You don’t want to hear this, I know. I’m sorry. I think you have to. It won’t be any easier if you keep putting things off and don’t ever hear the full story from someone who knew it well.”  
  
“My friends could tell me, if I asked about you,” Harry whispered. “They must know who you are. I wouldn’t have hidden something this important from them.”  
  
Then he thought about the names with amounts of money ticked against them in the ledger, and felt a sick surge of self-distrust even as Rob made a little disbelieving sound that might have been laughter. “You’re the most secretive person I’ve ever known, Harry. There’s a lot that can be said about that, in praise and scorn, but it’s  _true_.”  
  
Harry opened his eyes again and looked at him. He wished he knew what to feel, what to do. Once again, he was alone and no one could really tell him what was the best thing to do.  
  
But he thought about all the secrets, and tried to lift his chin. It was better to know than not to know. He couldn’t make apologies if he didn’t know who he had hurt or what they’d done.  
  
Besides, Rob looked as if he was settling into the Floo and perfectly willing to tell the story in endless detail right then and there. Harry didn’t know what had happened, but he was sure he wasn’t without fault in it. And the least he could do was be polite.  
  
“Why don’t you come in?” he added, before Rob could say anything else. “Have a cup of tea and a place to sit down.”  
  
Rob passed a hand across his face as if he was in a dream and trying to check on whether his vision was blurred. “Well, that’s a nice offer, I must say,” he murmured. “Maybe you’ve changed in more ways than the obvious.”  
  
Harry chose to say nothing. He had no idea whether it was just his memories that Rob was including in the “obvious,” or something else. Regardless, Rob whirled out of the Floo a second later, perfectly familiar with the address of Number Twelve, and swatted at his robes while his gaze devoured Harry.  
  
Harry couldn’t look at him the same way. He was a stranger no matter how long they stared into each other’s eyes, like the older Harry in the Pensieve memories. Harry tried to tell himself this was the man he’d been in love with, but other than noting that Rob had sleek dark hair and deep eyes, he couldn’t see why he would have thought him handsome.  
  
Rob finally shifted his weight, and Harry nodded and waved his hand towards the library, then started walking that direction. Rob promptly followed.  
  
Harry noticed that Rob didn’t seem to have any trouble getting around the house, and he went immediately towards the chair Harry sat in most often, as if that had been _his_ chair. Harry dropped into the one across from him and said, “Okay. You have to understand I don’t remember anything about you. I thought I learned something from the journals and photographs my older self hid, but I only really know enough to get me in trouble.”  
  
Rob’s eyebrows went up, and stayed up while Harry called in Kreacher and asked him to bring tea. Kreacher only stared stonily at Rob the entire time. If he recognized him, Harry thought, it wasn’t a happy recognition.  
  
But he had more to worry about right now than Kreacher. He looked at Rob and said, “So what did you want to tell me?”  
  
Rob sat back with his hands on his knees. He wore fine robes, Harry thought, which might show he was rich or something like it. The journal hadn’t mentioned him being pure-blood, but then, Harry hadn’t read the journal very closely.  
  
“I want you to know that I would never have given you up if not for your obsession,” said Rob.  
  
“What obsession?”  
  
“Even  _that’s_ gone?”   
  
Rob was gaping at him, and Harry wondered how many times he would have to repeat that, yes, all his memories were gone, and people who had known him but who he didn’t remember would have to treat him like that. Luckily, Rob went on before Harry could yell at him.  
  
“Another nice change,” Rob muttered. “Fine. You were obsessed with proving to yourself that you were a nice and normal person.”  
  
“Okay,” Harry said slowly. “I mean, I always wanted to be normal. But why would that entail giving you up?”  
  
A second later, Harry had to look away from Rob’s smile.  
  
“Because you didn’t think it was normal to be dating a man,” Rob said, very softly. “Not when you could be dating a woman instead, and the woman everyone expected you to marry.”  
  
Harry just looked at the floor. The hurt in Rob’s voice wasn’t something he was well-equipped to deal with, and he knew it.  
  
But he would have to deal with it somehow if he wanted to know what in the world Rob was talking about. So he looked up and asked, “Why wouldn’t I just have gone and dated her from the beginning, if I was in love with her?”  
  
Rob shook his head. “You weren’t in love with her. You were in love with me.”  
  
Harry sat up. “You seem fairly certain about that.”  
  
“ _Fairly,_ yes.” Rob crossed his legs. “Considering that you swore to me that you loved me when you were under Veritaserum.”  
  
“Fuck.” Harry rubbed his mouth and wanted to apologize for the word a second later, but Rob was watching him with something that seemed like approval. “Okay. Why would I have been under Veritaserum?”  
  
“Because I doubted that you loved me, when you wanted to hide me away and treat me like such a nasty secret. So you took Veritaserum and told me you loved me so I would stop worrying about it.”  
  
Harry stared into the fireplace. He wanted to see some pattern among the flames that would make sense, considering that his whole world was full of nonsense right now, but nothing came clear when he looked at them.  
  
“I didn’t think I was gay,” Harry finally said, when Kreacher had come and given them the tea and sniffed and left again. “The main thought I had when I read this journal I kept about you was surprise.” He looked up. “Is that why I wanted to hide you away? Because I never fully admitted that I was gay?”  
  
“You were never gay.” Rob’s eyes were hard. “Bisexual. Which I could accept. But you couldn’t. Every time you told me you loved me, you seemed to mean it. But a few hours or days later, you would be telling me how the wizarding world wouldn’t be able to accept that side of you, not when you were supposed to marry Ginny Weasley and have babies and live happily ever after.”  
  
“I never cared about what the press thought, from what I can remember,” Harry said. The same blank surprise that had overcome him when he first saw the mentions of Rob’s name in the journal was filling him up again. “Why would I this time?”  
  
Rob cocked his head. “Because you thought that loving me was part of some descent into darkness that you also said you were making elsewhere in your life. You had violent impulses, I know that. And you were involved in  _something_. Something that you once told me involved threats, but that was all I ever knew about it. You told me that you were two people, one good, one evil. One Light, one Dark.” Rob sucked in enough air that Harry was surprised there was any left in the room for him. “And loving me was part of the evil, Dark side of you.”  
  
“Oh,  _Merlin_ ,” Harry said, and put his head in his hands. He knew, objectively, that this wasn’t the worst thing his old self had done. The blackmail was worse, and probably whatever memories Harry would find in the Pensieve, which Malfoy had instructed him not to look into yet, in case it interfered with the success of the potion.   
  
But it sounded horrible, for him to accuse another person of making him Dark by loving him. Of dragging him into the Dark because that love  _existed_.  
  
Harry braced himself and looked up. Rob was looking back at him without any expression, other than a small, precise curl of his lip.  
  
“I know it won’t mean much, because I’m not him and I don’t remember being him at all,” Harry said. “But I’m sorry.”  
  
Rob waited long enough that Harry wondered why he wasn’t just getting up and storming out of the room. But in the end, he nodded, long and slow.  
  
“He’s gone, then.” Rob turned his head as if he would study the steam rising from the teapot. Harry didn’t know him well enough to say what he was really avoiding, though. “The man I fell in love with.”  
  
“Yes,” Harry said quietly. “And not coming back. I don’t want to be an Auror again and stuck in a class full of trainees and instructors who will revere me for things I didn’t do. So I won’t ever train as an Auror again, either.”  
  
Rob’s hands tightened for a second on his knee. Then he turned around. “Did you find out how we fell in love?” he asked.  
  
Harry felt his throat tighten. He swallowed and said hoarsely, “No. There was some stuff in the journal about spending a lot of time sparring with you, but—no.”  
  
“That was the beginning,” said Rob, and he smiled faintly. “Fighting together. You said that you’d never had someone who complemented you so well. No disrespect to Weasley, but he wasn’t as good at casting quick spells.”  
  
“I know,” said Harry, because that was one of the things he  _did_ know, and felt privileged to remember. “His strength was strategy.”  
  
Rob looked him dead in the eye. “And you said that you wanted someone who could keep up with you, and invited me out for drinks. It took me a long time realize that when you said you  _wanted_ someone, you meant as more than a sparring partner. Or an Auror partner.”  
  
Harry just shook his head. The way he could imagine it, it sounded like the kind of relationship he would have wanted. Someone who could fight beside him, run beside him, be his equal. He wondered why in the world he would have wanted to give it up.  
  
Or conceal it.  
  
“What made it end?” he asked. “I mean, besides what you already told me. Was there one decisive moment?”  
  
Rob tapped his fingers in a rhythmic pattern on his knee, then sighed. “There was one moment when you came and told me that you’d decided you’d wasted enough time. You wanted to date Weasley’s sister. You wanted to have cute ginger babies with her.”  
  
“As if there was any guarantee they would  _be_ ginger,” Harry muttered.  
  
Rob looked up with a surprised, flashing smile. “You really are different, aren’t you,” he whispered. “ _He_ would never have said something like that. He had no sense of humor about it at all. Never did, not about things that didn’t go the way he imagined them.”  
  
Harry smiled wanly back. It didn’t escape him that someone who had once been his lover seemed to know and accept the demise of Old Harry better than his friends and Ginny had.  
  
Then again, Rob hadn’t been in contact with Old Harry for at least five years. That suggested he might have forgotten some features of the man Harry was.  
  
“He gave me a deadline,” said Rob, and his face was distant now. “He said that we could make love one last time, and spend a few months ‘cooling things down’ so that everything would be ‘normal’ between us by the time he went back to Ginny.” He looked at Harry, and his forehead wrinkled. “Or by the time you did. Merlin, this is confusing.”  
  
“It is,” said Harry, and tried to strengthen his smile. “He sounds like an insufferable arsehole.”  
  
“I think he  _was,_ at that point.” Rob sighed. “And I’d let him get away with it for too long in the name of being in love with him.” He grimaced and sat up. “I told him where he could put his deadline, and then I walked out of there. He sent me letters for a while, telling me that he kept a photograph of me and him on his desk. He could do that much without risking exposure, he said. The Weasleys knew us as friends.” Rob glanced at Harry and shook his head quietly. “I wasn’t going to stand being relegated to the shadows, and I wasn’t going to stand being wooed.”  
  
Harry only nodded. He couldn’t say that he felt bisexual now, or as if he could so easily fall in love with a man, but he could understand what Rob was saying.  
  
“I still think I made the right decision,” Rob said.  
  
“Of course you did,” Harry said. “I can’t tell you exactly what was going on in his mind, but you didn’t deserve to be treated that way by someone you loved. And who loved you. If he did, he should have ignored what the press was saying and his desire for cute ginger babies, and stayed with you.”  
  
Rob glanced at him again. His mouth was set and bloodless this time, and Harry wondered if he’d accidentally used some phrase that reminded Rob of bad old times. He opened his mouth to apologize.  
  
“You’re so  _different_ ,” Rob said abruptly. “I thought you might be more like you were—like  _he_ was when I first met him, because you’d been flung back in time so far, but you’re different even from that.”  
  
“Myself, yes,” said Harry quietly. “I only—I feel like I’m the only Harry that ever was, of course. But I know it must be confusing. For someone who knew my old self, I mean.”  
  
Rob shut his eyes. This time, the set of his mouth actually looked painful. Harry shook his head. “This looks hard for you,” he said. “Do you want me to get a healing potion? You look pretty bad.”  
  
Rob abruptly snapped to his feet and held out a hand. Confused, Harry let Rob pull him up, and found himself just as abruptly pressed close, while Rob searched his eyes with piercing ones.  
  
“I didn’t believe it,” Rob whispered. “I haven’t believed in second chances since the day I walked away from him. But—would you let me court you, Harry Potter?”  
  
There was an eloquent response there somewhere. But Harry ended up blinking and saying only, “Huh?”  
  
“You’re so different from him that it’s like meeting someone new.” Rob was speaking fast enough that that sounded painful, too. “But you  _look_ like him, and I just—I know it’s probably unhealthy. I know that I should move on and accept your apology and just not look back.” He gave Harry another strained smile, but this one was more open and relaxed than the last, if only by a touch. “But I’m not good at that, either.   
  
“Would you give me the chance to get to know you, and see if that works out for both of us?”  
  
Harry blinked dazedly. He did have to say, “I can’t remember being attracted to men at all. I haven’t been since I—woke up. I don’t think it would work if I wasn’t like that.”  
  
“That’s why I’m asking for a chance. Not saying you have to. Do you want to try?”  
  
Harry stared up into Rob’s face, and wondered. Would something like being bisexual, or gay, or whatever, come back if he waited long enough? Could the destruction of his memories destroy that, too?  
  
He didn’t know, but he did open his mouth to give an answer, because Rob’s closeness and pleading eyes demanded that, at least.  
  
And that was when Draco Malfoy walked in, and spoiled it all.


	9. Blood

“What is going on here?”  
  
Harry flinched and jumped back from Rob, and only a second later thought how stupid that was. He’d reacted as if Malfoy was a prefect at Hogwarts who’d caught him snogging someone in the corridors.  
  
Rob had stepped back, too, but not  _leaped_ back. And his eyebrows were coming down in a way that Harry couldn’t remember, but thought meant he was probably angry. Harry swallowed, to make sure his voice wouldn’t come out squeakily, and said, “This is Rob Haynes, who was my lover at one point early on in the life I’ve forgotten.”  
  
He’d thought that might work to distract Rob, because it meant he was saying something aloud that Old Harry had apparently never said. And it did work, as far as that went. Rob’s eyebrows went back up, his jaw fell open, and he reached out a hand. Harry shook it instead of taking it and gave him a nervous smile.  
  
Malfoy had come to a halt and was staring at Harry in incredulity. Then he shook his head rapidly and said, “I would have known about something like that.”  
  
“Would you have?” Harry shrugged. “My old self was apparently an arsehole and wanted to be ‘normal’ and keep it from everybody.”  
  
Malfoy turned to Rob, lowering his voice. “How long were you his lover?”  
  
“Three years, in the physical sense.” Rob’s voice sounded like a trumpet, and Harry knew why. It must stun him to be able to speak openly about being in Harry’s life, after so long. “We knew each other and were attracted longer than that, but it took me some time to convince him to give it a try.” He shot Harry a look.  
  
Harry raised his hands. “I did apologize for that. But since I don’t remember it, it’s like it happened to another person.”  
  
“Then why apologize?”   
  
Rob and Malfoy asked that at the same time, and then glared at each other. Harry shook his head. Maybe Malfoy just thought Rob would spread word around about Malfoy being in Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, and knowing Malfoy was a Potions brewer, someone else would draw worrying conclusions from that.   
  
“I apologized because you still deserved to have someone say how sorry he was for that,” Harry told Rob. “But I don’t want you to think I remember any of what you’re talking about. I  _don’t._ ” He swallowed and continued, “That’s what you have to keep in mind if I—if I give you a second chance. You’re not wooing someone who can respond to any private jokes and references you had. And maybe it’s not worth it for you, anyway. I can only  _look_  like him. I can’t  _be_ him.”  
  
“Exactly.” Malfoy looked paler than normal, but his voice had snapped back to sounding like what it had when Harry first visited him. “And at the moment, this is another distraction you don’t need, Potter. Dismiss him for now. Roll around in the sheets with him later, if you want.”  
  
“It went deeper than that,” Rob snapped.  
  
“It must have,” Harry told Malfoy. “I can see that from his eyes and voice.”  
  
Malfoy rolled his eyes. “And you need to be as calm as possible for the potion we’re about to make, but please, go ahead with this ill-advised sexual relationship that’s already agitating you if you want to.” He cast Harry a critical glance.  
  
“Potion?” Rob asked.  
  
 _Well, at least Malfoy can’t be angry at me for revealing the potion’s existence. He was the one who did that._ Harry nodded. “There’s a potion that might let me recover some of my memories.” He left it at that, since the details would do no one any good. “Not all of them, but a few.”  
  
“That’s great news, Harry.” Rob studied him for a moment, then smiled tentatively. “But you don’t seem that happy about it?”  
  
“Why should he, when he was an arsehole and he’ll have to watch himself behaving that way?” Malfoy asked.  
  
Rob glanced at Malfoy as if he didn’t know what to do with him. Harry intervened hastily. “I don’t even know if it’s going to work yet. But Malfoy’s the expert. That means I need to listen to him.” Harry held out his hand and made sure he was staring straight into Rob’s eyes. That was something that wasn’t beyond him, at least. “If I need to stay calm right now to brew the potion, then I’ll do that, and bid you farewell.”  
  
Rob paused as if he would argue the point for a moment, then nodded and touched his fingertips to the center of Harry’s palm. “Think about what I said,” he whispered. “We were good together once. Or could have been. I think we could be again.”  
  
Harry just shrugged. “I want  _you_ to realize I’m not him,” he said. “And it really might be for the best to let things go so you can move on.”  
  
Rob nodded, but not in a way that suggested he believed it. Harry sighed as he watched him walk out of the room. From the squeaky voice in the corridor, Kreacher had met him and would escort him to the Floo.  
  
“You  _trust_ him.”  
  
Harry turned to Malfoy. “I don’t know. What he says sounds convincing. I don’t think I’d trust him enough to become his lover or anything like that.” The words still stuck in his throat. Harry just couldn’t see himself as gay, or as someone who would be want to be normal so badly that he would abandon someone he was in love with.  
  
But on the other hand, he had no reason to think Rob was lying. He shrugged again and said, “What part of the potion do I have to do first?”  
  
Malfoy examined him the way a Healer might, Harry thought, and finally nodded. “Here.” He held out what looked like a hollow needle. “You need to stick yourself. An enchantment will draw the blood up and to the end of the needle.”  
  
Harry nodded. He wondered why he didn’t feel more upset, but in the end, he shrugged. Rob had been unexpected, but he was only one part of the past, and Harry didn’t know if he would ever end up dating him again.  
  
Maybe he would never end up dating  _anyone_ again, he thought with dark humor as his blood began to work its way up the needle. Would he want to, when he had ten years of acting stupid behind him and he didn’t remember so many of the important political events and songs and minor, everyday things that people would expect to talk about?  
  
Malfoy’s hand fell on his arm. Harry blinked into his gaze, and Malfoy frowned at him. “You do need to be  _calm_ for the potion to work,” he said, and nodded at the needle, which Harry had avoided looking at too closely. “Your blood is the wrong color. Too dark. Think about whatever peaceful thing you can, and relax.”  
  
“Why not just give me a Calming Draught, then?” Harry muttered, watching as the thin scarlet thread rose to the end of the needle.  
  
“Another potion would also taint the blood,” Malfoy said coolly. “But I can cast a spell that would relax you if you wish.”  
  
“Maybe you’d better,” Harry whispered. He wasn’t upset, or he thought he wasn’t, but his head was far away, swirling with clouds of thoughts that wouldn’t let him rest.  
  
Malfoy eyed him the way he would probably look at a potion that wasn’t heating right, Harry thought, and then held out his wand and tapped it on top of Harry’s head in an impersonal way. “ _Tranquillitas_ ,” he said, voice utterly calm.  
  
Harry closed his eyes. For the first time since he woke up without a memory, he thought, he could feel true, deep calm flooding him. He felt as if he could lie down and melt into the floor. He began to take smooth, deep breaths, and heard Malfoy murmur something that sounded like a compliment from above his head.  
  
When the pull of the needle on his blood stopped, Harry urged his eyes open. “Did you get the blood the color you needed?” he asked. His voice was a monotone, gentle and unconcerned. He would have shaken his head, but he was feeling too good for that.  
  
“Yes.” Malfoy set aside a vial of the blood and appraised him for a few seconds in silence. Harry would have objected, but he had forgotten what he was supposed to object to. All he could do was look back in dull quietude. If Malfoy left the room, he would probably close his eyes and forget all about him, Harry thought.  
  
Maybe that would be a good thing. Harry didn’t know how much he could rely on Malfoy to help him. Maybe the potion wouldn’t work. Maybe he would turn around and betray Harry at the last minute. He was looking at Harry with something close to disgust right now.  
  
“Why did you date a man if you only wanted to keep it secret?” Malfoy asked abruptly.  
  
Harry closed his eyes and shrugged. Even the motion of his shoulders was soothing, he thought, as soothing as breathing was. “I don’t know. I’m not the man who made that decision. But Rob kept saying Old Harry was in love with him, and really meant it, but didn’t want anyone to think badly of him.”  
  
“Why would they think badly of their  _hero_?” Something odd and jagged in Malfoy’s voice now, Harry thought, but it couldn’t pierce through the sea of his calm.  
  
“I don’t know. I wasn’t there.”  
  
“You keep talking as if you weren’t,” said Malfoy, and his face had gone inscrutable again when Harry opened his eyes. Harry decided that he must have imagined the look of disgust. For one thing, this didn’t seem like it would have any impact on how the potion worked. “And talking about the man who made those decisions as ‘Old Harry.’ Do you really think of him as a different person?”  
  
“Why not?” Harry wanted to sway back and forth, but that would probably lead to him falling. He groped his way over to the couch and sat down, swinging his legs back and forth just to watch them. “He made all these decisions I’ll never know the reason of. I can’t answer your questions when I don’t know those answers.” He blinked up at Malfoy. “And should you be asking me questions under this spell? It’s kind of like Veritaserum.”  
  
“It wouldn’t be, to normal people,” Malfoy muttered.  
  
Harry shrugged. “That’s the only reason I can tell you, the only reason Rob told me. He just wanted to be normal. And finally that was marrying Ginny and having some kids.” Harry looked out the window. There was only a smudge of grey sky. He tried to imagine the kids he and Ginny would have had.   
  
He couldn’t, though. Every attempt to imagine green eyes or freckles or what he would have named them dissolved back into images of those lists and numbers and names in those ledgers. Or Rob’s desperate, pleading looks. Harry shook his head. “I have to clean up Old Harry’s messes,” he muttered. “I have to understand them. I don’t want to try and understand him.”  
  
“It’s strange,” Malfoy mused. “There are some things I didn’t know about,  _obviously_.” He threw Harry a scathing glance for some reason and started pacing back and forth. “But you also trusted me with a lot of your secrets. Why would you tell me about forcing people to work for you and not trust me with the secret of Haynes?”  
  
“What else can I tell you except  _I don’t know_?” Harry muttered, and closed his eyes. “I didn’t even know that I was forcing people to work for me. What was I making them do?”  
  
“Pass information on to you, as I understood it.” Malfoy’s voice had moved further away, and when Harry looked, he found him standing on the other side of the room, studying Harry with his head cocked on one side. “I wondered if that was why you became so successful as an Auror. You knew about some crimes  _before_ they happened.”  
  
“Oh,” Harry said, blinking, with a terrible hope rising in his head, one that managed to pierce even through the spell Malfoy had cast. “So I was—using them for a  _good_ reason? I managed to blackmail them but make sure that they served the wizarding world?”  
  
“Consider this, Potter.” Malfoy was smiling now, and he flipped a hand at Harry. “Your rivals in the Auror Department also had a turn for falling in line with what you wanted, or else leaving the training program. An interesting result, if you were using the blackmail only for good things.”  
  
Harry sighed and looked down at the floor. “You’re right. And even if I did manage to protect people with this, I was doing it for my own glory at the same time. That’s not a pure motive.”  
  
There was a quick, graceful motion Harry saw mostly out of the corner of his eye. He started. He thought the spell must be wearing off.  
  
But the motion was only Malfoy kneeling before him, his eyes flitting over Harry’s face and his forehead creased. He shook his head once and murmured, “You are so different that I wonder if the brain damage changed your personality as well as erased some of your memories. Why are you lamenting working for your personal glory? I know for a fact that you didn’t have a problem with that even right after the war.”  
  
“Then tell me how you know that,” Harry said. He leaned his head into his hands and sighed. No one knew the whole truth, he thought, except the man he’d once been. Everyone only knew bits and pieces of his life. Perhaps he ought to have been happy about that, or he would have been arrested a long time ago.  
  
But he didn’t  _feel_ happy. He felt as if he could have gone to sleep and not woken up again. Or maybe he should wake as the charming bastard he’d been, who had fooled Ginny and even his friends, and worked with Malfoy, and been the Auror Department’s top Auror.  
  
“Potter? Listen to me.”  
  
 _One way Malfoy hasn’t changed, either,_ Harry thought, and shook his head a little as he focused.  _He still hates being ignored._  
  
“You and I met a month after the war,” Malfoy began in a quiet voice. “You wanted to return my wand, but you said that you didn’t want to do it with a lot of fanfare. That was the period when the press was following you everywhere you went.”  
  
Harry blinked and focused. Maybe this would give him something to be proud of, he thought. A few years after the war, Old Harry would probably have been too horrible a person to return the wand even if it didn’t hurt him. “All right. Then what happened?”  
  
Malfoy shook his head, and for a minute Harry thought he’d given up on the memory and wasn’t going to tell him. Then he stood and murmured, “I opened the door of the Manor to what I thought would be you. Instead, it was you and an entourage.”  
  
Harry blinked several times. In spite of the evidence that seemed to be staring him in the face, it still took him a moment to realize what Malfoy was saying. “I brought the press with me?”  
  
Malfoy nodded, his eyes distant. “And your friends, so that they could witness you ‘forgiving’ me. And several Aurors, who supposedly wanted to make sure that I hadn’t been doing anything too terrible while I was under house arrest, awaiting my trial. And I don’t know how many dozens of fans.”  
  
He turned his head and watched Harry with a cynical eye. “You gave me back my wand, wrapped with a huge bow, in front of all those people. Then you made a speech about forgiveness and how that was what the wizarding world needed most of all, to remember that it wasn’t about sides, but about people.”  
  
Harry had nothing to say to that. He couldn’t remember ever thinking something like that. Well, not in those words. It was like asking Ginny to date him in public. He would have asked her, but not the way he had.  
  
Yet the memories of everyone else in the world hadn’t been changed. Harry swallowed and asked, “Did I want to humiliate you?”  
  
Malfoy’s gaze snapped back to him, sharp and alive again. “I doubt you thought about it at all,” he said. “You wanted to show off in front of your fans and get that adulation you craved. If I was humiliated, it was a side effect and not the goal.”  
  
“I’m amazed that you agreed to work with me on developing a potion to suppress my Dark side, after that,” Harry said in a numb voice. He could too easily imagine Dudley doing something like that to him, if he’d had the power, and if it had happened when they were still kids. His skin crawled.  
  
“You were paying well,” Malfoy said. “And like I said, I never thought that you were trying on purpose to humiliate me. But it did mean that I wanted the potion to succeed. Because it meant you would never do something like that to me again.”  
  
“Did I ever apologize to you?” Harry blurted.   
  
Malfoy moved slowly away from him, to stand looking out the window where Harry had been able to see only greyness. He moved his head a little.  
  
“I don’t think you apologized to your lover, either,” he added a second later. “So I shouldn’t have been surprised, because it was stupid to think that I mattered to you at all except as a press opportunity.”  
  
“Then I’ll apologize to you now,” Harry said firmly, standing up. “The way I did him. You deserved better. I’m sorry.”  
  
Malfoy turned to watch him and look at him in silence for so long that Harry was sure he’d messed up again. But then, slowly, Malfoy inclined his head, and his smile was present, if cynical.  
  
“Apology accepted,” he said, and swooped to pick up the vial of blood. “Now. The future is more important the past, I’m sure you’ll agree. And we need to start working on it.”  
  
Harry followed Malfoy down the stairs in silence. The calmness spell seemed to have worn off. But he had even more to think about.  
  
 _So whatever happened to change things must have been early, within a month after the war. That was before I knew Rob, and I probably hadn’t started blackmailing people or spending much time with Ginny, yet._  
  
 _I’m going to have to ask Ron and Hermione for memories. It’s the only way._


	10. Skin

Harry took another gulp of scalding hot tea. He and Ron and Hermione had been sitting around their dining room table for long enough that Harry had already used a charm on his cup. And Hermione’s stare was wearing more and more in the direction of “baffled and not liking it.”   
  
Ron was staring at his hands, sneaking glances at Harry only now and then.  
  
Harry gave up and leaned in. “I don’t know how else to ask this,” he said. “ _Something_ must have happened to me in the month right after the war, because now I’ve heard from people that that’s when I began to act different. What do you remember?”  
  
Hermione turned to Ron. Her hand reached out, and he took it, turning it gently over in his. Harry watched with an envy that hurt almost as much as the lack of memories. It seemed he might have had that with Rob, if not Ginny.  
  
And he’d spilled that love on the ground and wasted it.  
  
“I don’t know what else to tell you about that month after the war that we haven’t told you,” said Hermione, and turned to face him. “I mean, you’ve seen the Pensieve memories of our celebrations and the speech you made the day after the Battle of Hogwarts and the way you sealed Dumbledore’s tomb to put the Elder Wand back in. There were days when you mostly stayed in the Burrow, but I doubt that’s what you mean.”  
  
Harry sighed and closed his eyes. He wondered how much he could explain to his friends when he didn’t understand it himself, and then decided that he would have to go further than he had. “What I mean is—is that I started becoming an insensitive prick not that long after the war, apparently. I need to figure out what might have caused it. Did someone curse me? Did someone attack me and turn me bitter?”  
  
“I can’t remember anything like that. I don’t even remember you being insensitive.” Hermione finally turned to Ron with an air that looked like someone trying to put him out of his misery. “Can  _you_ , Ron?”  
  
“No.” Ron lifted his head, and Harry jumped at the look of devastation on his face.  
  
“Losing you from being part of the family is like you losing your memories all over again,” Ron whispered.  
  
Harry felt as though someone had slapped him across the face, and since he didn’t think that was really reasonable, he got angry. “You haven’t lost me from the family,” he said, and his voice was a little shrill. “What are you  _talking_ about? You still have me. I still think of you and your family as mine.”  
  
“But you won’t marry Ginny.” Ron shook his head. “And I’ve been looking forward to that for years.”  
  
Harry rubbed his scar. A headache was forming behind it. The only good thing about the ten years that had passed since the war, he thought, was that no one automatically asked about Voldemort anymore when he rubbed the damn thing.   
  
“Let’s try this again,” he said. “Why do you think that not being Ginny’s husband is going to keep me from being your friend?”  
  
Ron gave him a haunted look. “It’s not that. It’s just that you were looking forward to it, and it would have made Ginny happy, and it would have made all of us happy. And for months you’ve been telling us about how you were going to propose. You showed us the  _ring_ , mate.” He was no longer holding Hermione’s hand. “It’s like you came back from the dead a whole different person.”  
  
“That’s what I did do,” Harry said, a beat before Hermione would probably have said the same thing. He saw her closing her mouth of the corner of his eye, and gave her a grateful smile for letting him handle this on his own, before he turned back to Ron. “I don’t remember being about to propose to Ginny. Tell me about the month after the war.”  
  
“I think we did,” said Hermione. “At least in as much detail as I can recall it now.” She shook her head. “Would you like to see some memories of the funerals and the days at the Burrow?”  
  
“Yes,” said Harry at once.   
  
Hermione nodded and reached for the Pensieve that she had taken to carrying around with her lately. She’d probably borrowed it from St. Mungo’s for the sake of working with him, Harry thought.   
  
He looked at Ron, and Ron frowned at him. “How can someone who was that much in love with Ginny possibly be dead?” he mouthed.  
  
Harry looked away. He didn’t  _know_ , but he thought Ron ought to be closer to accepting it by now than it seemed he was.   
  
He looked at Hermione and the way she bent over the Pensieve instead. Memory after memory flicked out of her temple and onto her wand, but some of them took a while. Harry supposed that was the case with older memories.  
  
He honestly couldn’t  _remember,_ though. That was the hard thing.  
  
Hermione finally nodded and sat back. “There. Done.” The Pensieve was full and shimmering, and Harry dragged it towards him and plunged his head beneath it without even waiting to hear if they were going to accompany him. By this time, his consuming need to know had started to itch beneath his skin.   
  
He found himself, alone, in a room so dim that he didn’t recognize it for long moments. Then he did. It was the drawing room at the Burrow, and a younger self—one who looked the way Harry felt he  _should_ look, not as tall or broad—sat by the fire with his legs folded and his arms looped around them, staring at the flames.  
  
As he watched, Hermione came down the stairs and into the room, rubbing her eyes and yawning. Young Harry didn’t turn around. Harry watched the whole thing with a sense of unreality.  
  
He had assumed memories like this would connect him more with himself, would make him feel as if he was remembering something he had only temporarily forgotten. But instead, it was as if he was on the outside more than ever.   
  
 _Maybe that’s just because it’s Hermione’s memory,_ Harry thought hopefully, and continued to watch.  
  
“Couldn’t sleep?” Hermione asked softly as she sat down beside Harry.  
  
Harry turned to her and nodded. “I think my best sleep was the day of the Battle, actually,” he said. “Right after I killed Voldemort.”  
  
 _See? He’s you. He’s the one who remembers going to sleep and waking up._  
  
But it didn’t make Harry feel much better. He listened, instead, to Hermione swish her hair from side to side, and murmur, “I think there are Mind-Healers who would be glad to talk to you, if you want. So that you can sleep better.”  
  
“They’d be glad to talk to me so they could run off and report all the rumors and gossip as truth,” said Young Harry. He paused a moment, sighed, and then said, “All right, maybe not  _all_ of them. But none of them could help me make the decisions I need to make, anyway.”  
  
Harry leaned forwards intently. This sounded promising.  
  
“What do you mean?” Hermione had to smother a yawn. “Are you talking about those speeches the Ministry wanted you to make? You don’t have to do those if you don’t want to, you know. Talk about people trying to exploit you!”  
  
Young Harry smiled, but there were already shadows far in the back of his eyes, shadows that Harry didn’t think would be there if something important hadn’t happened. He stifled the urge to kick Hermione. What had  _already_ happened? What did she not think was that grand or worth noticing that had, in fact, altered everything for Young Harry?  
  
But maybe Young Harry was about to tell her, because he hesitated and then said, “I thought I could rest, after Voldemort was gone. I can’t, though, you know? The world’s always going to need heroes. And there are so many people looking up to me.” He took a huffing breath. “I don’t want to disappoint them.”  
  
“You could never disappoint anyone just by being yourself, Harry.” Hermione reached out and patted his arm.  
  
“You think so? Really?”  
  
 _Shit. How can it be there so soon after the Battle of Hogwarts?_ Harry studied the way Young Harry leaned forwards and spoke, and wondered how Hermione could miss it. On the other hand,  _he_ only knew how significant it was because he was on the outside looking in and had some idea.  
  
He couldn’t blame Hermione for the way she smiled comfortably and shook her head. “No. All your  _real_ friends will always love you for what you are.”  
  
Young Harry slumped back again and said, “Oh.”  
  
Hermione missed the dull tones in that “Oh.” She nodded and stood up. “Yes, I mean it. Now go to bed, Harry. Lying in bed has to be healthier for your back than crouching in front of the fire like that, even if you don’t immediately go to sleep.”  
  
“In a little while, Hermione.”  
  
Visibly, Hermione restrained herself from saying something. She nodded again and went upstairs. The memory drew in around the huddled figure, and moved on to the next one.  
  
Harry saw himself standing in front of a hastily-built podium—he could still see the gleam of metal where it had been Transfigured from something else—and two coffins. There was a huge crowd spread out before him, and although Hermione was standing beside him and smiling, Harry felt his stomach twist.   
  
He didn’t need Young Harry to tell him that most of the people had come to see Harry Potter, not to see these people be buried.  
  
Young Harry cleared his throat and launched himself straight into it. “I didn’t know either Remus Lupin or Nymphadora Tonks nearly as well as I would have liked. But I know she hated the name Nymphadora.” There was a faint ripple of laughter from the audience. “So I’m going to call her Tonks when I talk about her, if that’s all right.”  
  
 _Is this the way I would have done it? Is it honest or is it just pandering to them? I can’t tell._  
  
Harry had to close his eyes as the speech went on. Young Harry talked about Remus being a professor and Tonks being an Auror, and how he hoped their son would grow up all right, and how Tonks had loved Remus despite him being a werewolf. And the grief was there as if it had never gone, never been buried, just building up in Harry like a raincloud building up from the addition of smaller clouds.  
  
 _It never did get dealt with. Not by you. You’ve just been concentrating too much on getting your memories back to have felt it._  
  
Now, he shivered under the avalanche of it, and his mind was so filled with memories that he was missing the one playing out in front of him. Remus encouraging him to use his Patronus blended with Tonks turning her nose into a pig’s snout to make Ginny laugh. And Ginny laughing was part of his memories of sixth year and the way she had looked when he broke up with her a few days ago, and all were part of the huge clot of unhappiness rising in his throat.  
  
 _What kind of mess did I make of my life?_  
  
The speech finally ended, and Harry opened his eyes to find they had already segued into another memory. Hermione, Ron, and Harry were sitting outside the Burrow under a sunset that seemed bigger than a lot of others Harry remembered.  
  
 _And who knows how much I don’t remember?_  
  
Ron had just finished telling a joke, and both Young Harry and Hermione were laughing at it. Harry moved a little to the side so he could see them. Young Harry stopped laughing first, and the shadows were already back in his eyes as he stared off to the side.  
  
“Do you think it’s possible for people to be born evil?” he asked suddenly.  
  
Harry blinked and came to attention, while Hermione turned around and looked at Young Harry in concern.  _Maybe this is it._  
  
“Is this about Voldemort?” Hermione’s voice was gentle. “Because I think it’s regrettable you had to kill him, but I also think you were doing what needed to be done. I told you that, Harry.”  
  
Young Harry shoved back from the little table they sat at and stood up to pace. His hair was even more ruffled than usual. Maybe he’d been playing Quidditch right before this, Harry thought.   
  
“Dumbledore told me that about Voldemort,” Young Harry muttered. “Or at least he implied it. That some people are just born evil, and there’s nothing you can do about it. But I wondered—if he was born evil, and part of his soul lived in  _my_ soul for seventeen years, what would happen if he influenced me? What if part of me was born evil?”  
  
Ron said loudly, “No  _way_ , mate.” Young Harry turned towards him, and Ron went on, with his eyes blazing so much that Harry’s heart ached. Ron had been a loyal friend, again, and there were so many things Harry couldn’t  _remember_ about that that he wanted to scream.  
  
 _I might never stop screaming if I do._ Harry forced himself away from his thoughts and to attend to what Ron was saying.  
  
“You had the power and the love to sacrifice yourself to end Voldemort’s reign of terror.” Ron bulled straight ahead as Young Harry’s mouth opened, and Harry wondered if this was an argument they’d had before. “I know it didn’t take, but you didn’t know you would survive walking  _into_ the forest, did you? Could Voldemort ever have sacrificed himself like that?”  
  
Young Harry hesitated. “No,” he said finally.  
  
Ron nodded and reached out to punch Young Harry in the shoulder. “So. I think you should stop worrying about silly questions like if you’re  _evil_. You  _aren’t._ The way you’ve flung yourself into helping people since the war shows that. You’re never going to sit back and say that the world owes you a living for defeating Voldemort, are you?”  
  
Young Harry closed his eyes. A look of profound pain and tiredness passed over his face.  
  
And it stunned Harry like someone reaching into his chest and grasping his heart would.  
  
Because that was the way he had looked, in the mirror this morning. As if he would like to just go to sleep and never wake up.  
  
Young Harry sat down at the table again. Hermione nodded. “Ron’s right, Harry. You’ve been working yourself to the bone. Testifying at those trials and speaking at those funerals.”  
  
Young Harry opened his eyes. They were—strange. Not glazed any more, not tired. Harry thought he looked as if he’d rededicated himself to some secret goal in his mind while they were speaking. “I wanted to do that. I would give anything to have them back alive again, though.”  
  
“Of course no one doubts that, Harry,” Hermione said, and smiled comfortably at him.  
  
*  
  
“Did you find what you needed?”  
  
Harry turned around slowly. Malfoy stood behind him, his face neutral as he regarded Harry. Harry had come home from Ron and Hermione’s house hours ago, and he felt more tired than he had when he’d gone over there.  
  
“No.” Harry shook his head and flopped back in the chair. After that scene of Young Harry asking questions about whether someone could be born evil, the memories had flowed seamlessly from one to the other, but none of them had told him anything else, including anything else  _important_. In every one of them, Young Harry was already carrying a burden, and he would ask cryptic questions, but nothing that unlocked the mystery.  
  
“I think your potion is the best chance I have,” he told Malfoy, his own voice dull. “Ron and Hermione can show me what they saw and heard from the outside, and I thought that would be enough, because I’d see something and use it like a clue when they didn’t even realize it  _was_ a clue. But I don’t know what that person was thinking or feeling. That person isn’t me.”  
  
Malfoy gave him a single look so intense Harry thought he had gone away inside his head and was thinking his way through the potion or something. Then he nodded.  
  
“It’s best you realize that,” he said. “The potion isn’t a fix. It can show you private memories. But even that won’t bring back the dead or turn you into the man you were.”  
  
Harry nodded and closed his eyes. They were burning. “I know that. But to atone and apologize, I have to know who I should apologize  _to_.”  
  
Malfoy moved softly across the carpet, but Harry heard him anyway. He opened his eyes and they looked at each other in silence. Then Malfoy held out what looked like a knife, although one so slim and sharp it was hard for Harry to see the edge.  
  
“I need the skin for the potion,” Malfoy said. “And then I think it’s best if you come with me. I have something to show you.”  
  
“Something important? I really feel like I should just go to bed, Malfoy.”  
  
“Something important,” Malfoy confirmed.  
  
Harry sighed, then extended his arm. Malfoy flicked the knife down and then up, so fast that the pain didn’t follow it for almost a full minute. Then Malfoy reached out and healed the wound with a simple spell. He had watched Harry and not the knife the whole time.  
  
Harry mustered a smile. “I thought you said this potion wasn’t brewed all that often, but you took the skin like you’re used to doing it.”  
  
“When you see what I have to show you,” Malfoy said, “you’ll understand why.” He took a step back and held out his hand.   
  
Harry thought he was gesturing, and looked around, but didn’t see anything in the room Malfoy could point to. Then he realized it was there to help him up, and turned back. But the hand had retreated to Malfoy’s side, and his face had closed.  
  
“Sorry,” Harry mumbled, and climbed to his feet. Malfoy only nodded and turned to pace out of the room in front of him.  
  
Harry followed him, thinking,  _Well, I should get some practice in saying that word anyway._  
  
He couldn’t shake the feeling that he had missed a chance that might never come again, but, honestly. That seemed to be the story of his life since the war.


	11. Layerings

Harry looked around uneasily as he stepped into Malfoy Manor. Once again, the strange, grey-eyed house-elf was waiting for them, and he gave Harry the exact same smile and the greeting, “Master Potter. Welcome back,” as last time.  
  
“Why did you do that?” Harry asked the elf, honestly curious. Malfoy was walking ahead of him with a frown on his face, but he turned around when he heard Harry speaking. He didn’t tell Harry off, though, which was all the encouragement Harry needed to continue. “I mean, tell me that you’re happy to see me? You already know I don’t remember anything.”  
  
“But part of you is belonging here,” the elf said, and blinked at Harry as if he couldn’t believe Harry didn’t understand something so simple.  
  
Harry gave up. He didn’t think he was going to get any clarification, and Malfoy had started to tap his foot. He turned and walked down the corridor after Malfoy.  
  
He’d expected to go back to the same library-slash-study he’d seen last time, but instead, Malfoy led him to a heavy iron door level with the wall beneath a torch sconce. He paused and studied Harry much the same way the elf had, then nodded and laid his hand on a glittering brass ring set exactly in the middle of the door.  
  
The iron clanged open. Harry felt the hair rising on the back of his neck. Beyond the door were steps that Harry could hardly see even when Malfoy cast a spell that made a globe of light float up above his head.  
  
“The secret you want to show me is in the dungeons?” Harry croaked.   
  
“In the cellars. I didn’t mention that?” Malfoy had begun to walk down the steps, but he halted. He didn’t turn and look back at Harry, though, and with his skin crawling, Harry thought he didn’t mean to.  
  
“No.” Harry shook his head and tried to remind himself that, since he didn’t remember anything  _anyway,_ it presumably wouldn’t be too bad down in the cellars. “I wonder how my old self ever got over the memories of being captive here, though.”  
  
Malfoy paused for one moment longer before he continued walking. Harry found it difficult to read anything from the back of someone’s head, but he thought that extra pause was uncomfortable.  
  
“He had plenty of time and experiences to enable him to get over it.” Malfoy’s voice floated eerily back to Harry, as if he was already much further out of sight than he actually was. “Will you come?”  
  
Harry nodded, wasted as the gesture was since Malfoy didn’t look back, and set his foot on the first stair.  
  
The stairs bent and switchbacked a few times, and there were at least two landings. Harry thought he saw alcoves on those landings, one empty and one holding a pillar that had a crystal globe on top. He’d have liked to stop and look, but Malfoy was walking rapidly and he had the brightest light. Harry had to keep following.  
  
 _Although, why?_ he eventually thought.  _It’s not like I could really get lost, as long as I just keep following the stairs._  
  
But he didn’t want to be alone anyway, and so he and Malfoy got to the bottom at almost the same time. Malfoy led Harry through what looked like a wine cellar and then past a few closed wooden doors, before he turned around. His gaze was intense enough that Harry almost didn’t notice the closed wooden door behind him that had Harry’s name carved in the middle. Then he did, and raised his eyebrows at Malfoy.  
  
“I want you to know,” Malfoy said softly, “that this looks creepier when you experience it all at once than it was when you were giving me permission to remove bits of you at a time.”  
  
“It sounds a whole lot creepier the way you  _described_ it just now,” Harry said, and shuddered.  
  
“Perhaps so.” Malfoy continued to study him as though he expected Harry to back out, but Harry only stared back defiantly. In the end, Malfoy turned and opened the door with a subtle flourish of his arm.  
  
They stepped into a place that made Harry want to flinch and blush, both at the same time. He settled for reaching out and violently clutching Malfoy’s arm. But at least he did it in silence. Malfoy looked as if he wouldn’t have blamed Harry for screaming, anyway.  
  
The…room in front of them was set up like a museum. There were more of the alcoves like the ones Harry had seen on the stairs as they came down. There were displays on these, too, pillars that had floating bowls of blood and scraps of skin that tumbled around each other in intricate patterns. Transparent shields protected most of them.  
  
On a few pillars stood things Harry recognized as once having been his. Tattered textbooks from Hogwarts. A Gryffindor school tie. A robe that might have been his in first year—yes, there was the Potions stain down near the hem to prove it.  
  
And there were other things that Old Harry might once have owned, which Harry himself couldn’t remember: a golden watch chain, a silver tuning fork, a bracelet with diamonds set in it, a toy wand that looked like it was made of golden wood.   
  
Dominating the whole thing, on the opposite wall of the museum and staring out over the displays, was a portrait of Harry. But it was a frozen portrait. Harry could see that only its eyes moved, and its face was locked into an expression of incomprehensible sadness. It looked more like him than Old Harry, he thought, nonsensically.  
  
“You see?”  
  
“No,” said Harry. He turned slowly to Malfoy. “Unless you mean whether I’m seeing that you have some sort of crazy obsession with me.” He shook his head, filling as if it was filled with water and he needed to pound his ears to get some out. “But I know it’s not that.”  
  
“No,” Malfoy said, stepping closer. “It’s not that. But I know you. Not the personality, the likes and dislikes,” he added, as Harry opened his mouth to ask why Malfoy couldn’t tell him more about his memories and motivations for things, then. “But the blood. The skin. I know your magic and what you could be capable of if you really pushed yourself. I know—the way your body functions.”  
  
“The potions that my old self had you make were related to the one you’ll create to take me back into my memories, then?”  
  
Malfoy squinted at him as if wondering why Harry would be interested in that. Harry squinted back. Malfoy would have to remember that the  _current_ version of Harry didn’t know anything about Potions theory. If he wanted a detailed discussion, let him look at his own memories in a Pensieve.  
  
But instead of lecturing Harry or doing something else that would have proved he was an arsehole, Malfoy turned abruptly away and walked to one of the glass bowls that contained the floating scraps of skin. He reached out and touched the side of the bowl, and the skin congregated towards his hand like fish in an aquarium. Harry winced.  
  
“Not directly related to that potion,” Malfoy said. He had his eyes firmly fixed on the bowl now. “Not most of them. But a lot of potions required a bit of skin, if only to see how the composition of your body was changing in the wake of the draughts. So I grew expert at scraping it off.”  
  
Harry closed his eyes. He tried to imagine how many potions he must have been ingesting, if Malfoy was correct.   
  
And for  _what?_ Was he that obsessed with conquering his “evil” side?  
  
Harry snorted a little and opened his eyes. He supposed some people would only say that he’d traded that obsession for one that involved making up for the mistakes of Old Harry. “Why did you want to show me this?”  
  
Malfoy had turned around and was watching him. His brow had furrowed again, and he gestured randomly with the hand that wasn’t touching the glass bowl. “What’s going through your head? What’s so funny?”  
  
“Nothing you said,” Harry murmured hastily. If Malfoy got offended, he might refuse to help Harry. “Just thinking that I spent all this time and money and…body parts…trying to get rid of Darkness in me, and now I’m trying to clean up those same efforts.”  
  
Malfoy went as still as though Harry had cast a Medusa spell on him. Harry frowned at him and waited for him to speak, but he didn’t. Harry finally stuck out his tongue and crossed his eyes as hard as he could.  
  
Malfoy jerked a little back from him, as though Harry had germs from his tongue that could cross the distance between them. “What—what are you  _doing_?” he gasped, and raised one hand in front of his face.  
  
“Trying to see what you’re thinking,” Harry said.  _This would be so much easier if he only_ told  _me._ “I want to know why you keep pausing and staring at me. You’re the one who has the knowledge.  _Contribute_ it, Potions Brewer Third Degree Draco Malfoy, or whoever you are.” He folded his arms and leaned against the wall, carefully far away from the weird displays.  
  
Malfoy studied him for a moment or two more, then brought his head down in a quick nod. “I was surprised you had a sense of humor about yourself,” he said. “You never did before.”  
  
 _What a strange thing to be surprised by._ But ultimately, Harry was more interested in why Malfoy had kept so many—relics—from Old Harry than in the workings of his mind. “All right,” he said. “I’m a different person. Like I told you and told everyone, only most people don’t seem to believe me.” He paused, because his voice was taking on a whining tone, and tried to calm down. “Why did you  _keep_ all these things, though? Why not only a few samples, or notes? And what was that for?” He nodded at the enormous portrait.  
  
Malfoy took a step back as though he needed to view the picture again himself to answer that question. “ _He_ said the portrait looked like the person he wanted to be. When he looked like that again, the experiments would have been a success.” He darted another glance at Harry.  
  
“Oh. And I look a lot more like it.” Harry pondered the portrait a minute, then scowled at Malfoy. “You didn’t answer the other questions.”  
  
“Because I wanted to know you from the inside out.” Malfoy’s voice had a growling undertone to it. He moved to the side in a way that made Harry instinctively drop into a dueling crouch. Malfoy halted and pinched his nose, shutting his eyes. “You were so  _strange_ in the years after the war. And I don’t think I ever knew how strange. You would give me these little hints, and lie, the way you did when you said you would show up alone to give me back my wand. I wanted to know what changed you.”  
  
Harry rolled his eyes. “And you decided the best way to learn that was to keep my skin floating around in a bloody museum?”  
  
“ _Yes_.”  
  
“All right, all right.” Harry held up a placating hand. Malfoy already looked as though he was about to snap at him. “Anyway. Why did you want to show me this? Just to see if I looked more like the portrait?”  
  
“No. Partially.” Malfoy tugged hard at his hair. Harry kept still, although it was difficult. Malfoy abruptly dropped his hand from his head and leaned forwards. Harry kept still again.  
  
“You were so strange,” Malfoy told him demandingly. “I couldn’t figure it out. My potions kept failing. I managed to give all my other clients what they wanted with fairly simple brewing procedures. The only time I failed—” He spread his hand wide and displayed his curled fingers to Harry. “Was with you.”  
  
Harry snorted breathlessly, wishing he could feel less like he was a pinned and wriggling specimen. Malfoy already had enough “specimens” from him, Merlin knew. “What he asked for was impossible.”  
  
“Nothing in potions is impossible. Not for me.”  
  
Harry caught his eyes before they could roll. “All right. I don’t remember a thing about those potions or what Old Harry wanted, and anyway, I won’t continue to make you work on them based on what you told me.” He glanced around at the bowls and floating things. “I’d appreciate it if you’d get rid of these things.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Don’t I own them?” Harry turned back to face Malfoy. “Why wouldn’t you destroy them if I asked?”  
  
“Because, as you so eloquently pointed out, you’re not the same man anymore, and don’t really own these things.” Malfoy folded his arms and studied Harry. “He bequeathed them to me, if he meant anyone to have them. I might not learn as much as I would if you still had your memories, but a lot can be learned even from the dead. I want to figure out what changed him, and what was really going on in his head.”  
  
“You’re trying to find out the same thing I am, then.” Harry cleared his throat roughly. It felt as though someone had poured syrup down it to seal it shut. “ _Listen,_ Malfoy. I can’t—I don’t—”  
  
“He never stuttered like that.”  
  
Harry glared and said, “You might as well learn it along with me, and give up all this creepy shit.”  
  
“But what you want to discover isn’t the same as what I want to.” Malfoy shook his head restlessly, making a moving shadow in the light of his globe that was, in its own way, as creepy as anything he’d brought Harry down here to see. “You want to know— _inner_ things. Emotions. Memories.” He gestured at the bowls around him. “I want to know why my potions failed to work on him as they should have.”  
  
“But a second ago, you said you wanted to know what was going on in his head,” Harry said.   
  
Malfoy paused. “I did, didn’t I?” he murmured, and Harry thought he was talking to himself. But then he saw the way Malfoy’s eyes fixed on Harry. “He never would have noticed that I’d said that. He was focused on himself to the exclusion of all else.”  
  
“Yeah, I can see that,” Harry said. Even the attention Old Harry had paid to people like Ginny and Rob was about the way they would make him look, Harry thought, and what others would think if he dated them. That was probably why Old Harry had asked Ginny to date him the way he had. Attention was important, and doing it in public the way a hero would.  
  
But that still brought Harry no nearer the idea of  _why_ Old Harry would have decided looking like a hero was important.  
  
And it didn’t lessen Malfoy’s creepy stare, either. Harry looked around one more time, then focused on Malfoy. “That’s part of the reason you brought me here, isn’t it?” he asked. “To see my reaction? Because you know what he thought of it, but you didn’t know what I would.”  
  
Malfoy nodded. His gaze was avid in the same way a vampire’s would be. Harry found it uncomfortable.  
  
He would have liked to turn away and toy with something, but there wasn’t anything in here that wouldn’t make him even  _more_ uncomfortable. He cleared his throat and added, “Can you stop testing me? It’s bad enough already. Just assume that we both want the same thing, and go from there.”  
  
“I won’t assume anything again,” Malfoy whispered. “Not about you.”  
  
Harry thought about taking that the wrong way, but he shook his head and muttered, “Fine. Whatever.  _In the meantime,_ can we please start brewing the potion?”  
  
“I’m the one who needs to do the actual brewing,” Malfoy said. “I have the blood and skin now, and the skin only needs to settle for a few days before it’s ready to go into the potion.” Suddenly brisk, he escorted Harry towards the door of the “museum” again. “I’ll contact you when I’m ready to have you undergo the pain ritual.”  
  
He paused and added, “And meanwhile, don’t look at your memories in that Pensieve. You have no idea what it could do to the potion.”  
  
Harry nodded. “You said that before.”  
  
“But I know how tempting the memories could be to you.” Malfoy paused and studied him for a moment. “You don’t, you know.”  
  
Harry gave a hollow laugh. “Make up your mind. One instant, you don’t know anything about me, because Old Harry is dead. Then you know about me only from the outside. Then you want to know more. Now you know enough that you think you can predict what I’ll do?”  
  
Malfoy gave him a small, strange smile. “I’m the one who remembers better than you do, or than your friends do, what you were like at Hogwarts—”  
  
“ _I_ remember that.” Those memories blazed in Harry’s mind like comets, compared to everything else that he’d been forced to undergo or forget.  
  
“Ah, yes.” Malfoy shook his head. “I—forgot.”  
  
“I’m the one who’s supposed to do that.”  
  
Malfoy didn’t smile at the weak joke. He only looked at Harry closely and searchingly, then said, “Well, I’m the only one who remembers you that well  _and_ the man you were. You can’t know the second one, of course, and your friends have let the first fade from their minds.” He nodded slowly. “There are mysteries about you I want to solve just as much as you do. Go home. Rest. Think about what kind of pain you’re willing to suffer for the ritual to make the potion. And  _don’t_ look in the Pensieve.”  
  
“I get to choose the pain?” Harry asked, mildly startled. He’d thought there would be some kind of ritual requirements that limited his choices.  
  
“What you’re willing to suffer,” Malfoy repeated firmly.  
  
Harry looked at him one more time, then started up the stairs. Malfoy sent the light-globe with him, but remained behind, apparently for some work he had to do in the museum.  
  
Harry did pause halfway up the stairs, when he was sure Malfoy could still hear him, and called back, “You don’t need to keep that shit, you know. You could destroy it now that you have someone who’s willing to work with you to find out what you want to discover.”  
  
Malfoy didn’t answer. Harry sighed, and mounted the stairs to the top, where the strange, grey-eyed house-elf was waiting to show him out.


	12. Showing Up

Harry twitched and came awake so suddenly that he hurt his neck. He’d been dozing in the chair in front of the fire in the Black library, and now his back ached—and his neck, it hadn’t just been waking up that hurt it. He grimaced and turned his head to the side.  
  
Kreacher was standing there, staring at him with huge eyes. Harry looked back at him, numb.  
  
“Master is to be going to bed now!” Kreacher whispered hard, and frowned at Harry as if it was a terrible crime for him to be sleeping in the library.  
  
 _Considering some of the other things I got up to, I really don’t think this is the worst,_ Harry thought, managing to control his hysteria with an effort. His mind had unfocused, and he didn’t want to think about Malfoy’s creepy museum or anything else that would be hard to deal with. He asked instead, “Kreacher, why don’t you approve of Rob?”  
  
If anything, that made Kreacher puff up bigger and more disapproving than Harry had ever seen him. He stared at Harry and stared past him at the same moment. “It is not for elves to be disapproving of Master’s friends,” he said.  
  
“Oh, I know you wouldn’t do anything like spit in his tea or anything.” Now Kreacher looked shocked enough to faint. Harry shook his head.  _He can probably deal better with me smoking illegal potions and plotting blackmail than he can a sense of humor. Malfoy seemed pretty surprised, too._  “But what do you think of him?’  
  
“It is not for elves—”  
  
“If I  _order_ you to, will you tell me?”  
  
“It is a different thing if Master orders Kreacher, of course,” said Kreacher, and he looked homicidally happy, as if Harry had told him that he could cuddle some ancient Black artifact. “And Kreacher is not liking Rob Haynes. Kreacher never did. He is  _wanting_ things.” He shot a suspicious look into the corners of the library, as if he thought Rob was lurking in them to leap out on him.  
  
“Um.” Harry stretched a little and shook his head. “Do you mean he wanted to steal things from me?”  
  
“No.” Kreacher swiveled back to stare at him again. “Rob is wanting Master to be different.”  
  
“Oh,” Harry sighed. That wasn’t news. “I already know he wanted me to announce that we were lovers. But thanks, Kreacher.”  
  
“No,” said Kreacher. Now that he’d started speaking, it seemed he was going to do it even when Harry wasn’t commanding him. He came forwards so that he could put his hands on the very edge of the chair, and whispered as Harry stared at him. “He was wanting Master to not spend as much time here. Not to read the Dark books. Not to spend as much time finding out the secrets of others.”  
  
Harry felt a heavy shudder pass through him. Maybe his old self should have stayed with Rob, even if Harry still couldn’t imagine feeling any attraction to a man. Maybe Rob would have persuaded Old Harry to eventually abandon his Dark side and become a good, productive citizen of the wizarding world after all.  
  
“But Master is independent!” Kreacher’s eyes were burning. “Master told him no!” He pointed a finger at the ceiling. Then he slumped back and stared at Harry with a dullness returning to his face.  
  
“But new Master might be having him back,” he whispered. “And it would be being  _terrible_ for Kreacher.”  
  
Harry shook his head a little. “No, I won’t have him back,” he said. “You can rest easy about that. But I’d like to be friends with him and talk to him some more about what he remembers about me.”  
  
“Master is making a mistake,” Kreacher said, and turned and stumped out of the room. “It is going to be like it was being before.”  
  
Harry called for him, but Kreacher wouldn’t answer. Harry tried going down to the kitchen and speaking to him. Kreacher just stood there with his head turned away. His magic washed the dishes in the sink. But he wouldn’t look at Harry.  
  
In the end, Harry gave up and went to bed. If he was making a mistake in talking to Rob at all, then it was a mistake. And he had made his share of those. He would doubtless flail around making a few more before he started doing things right.  
  
*  
  
The next morning brought a visitor and an owl. Harry was finishing breakfast when the fire flared, and Ron called, “Hey, mate. Can I come visit?”  
  
Harry was just opening his mouth to answer when an aggressive owl surged through the window and towards him. “Just a minute, Ron,” Harry said, ducking and swearing as the owl tried to peck him on the head. “Bloody bird!”  
  
The owl landed on the table and regarded him with such a jaundiced eye that Harry cast a Stone Glove spell on his fingers before he reached out. It was usually used only with new, young owls who didn’t realize human fingers were not delicious owl treats, but in this case, Harry felt justified when the bird darted its beak out and recoiled with a screech from Harry’s hardened skin. Harry couldn’t feel bad about the sparks that fell from the owl’s beak as it skidded off his hand.  _Serves the damn thing right._  
  
The letter was on thick, soft paper that felt as if it was woven from rags, and said only,  _What are you doing? Kelvin._  
  
Harry stared at it. Then he shook his head and put the letter down on the table. Without any more incentive than that—and the owl had already flown through the window again, so Harry couldn’t even reply—Harry wouldn’t try to figure it out at this time in the morning.  
  
“Come on,” he told Ron, and opened the Floo. Ron stumbled through almost immediately and moved over to the other side of the table, where he sat down and studied Harry mournfully.  
  
“Has something happened to Hermione?” Harry asked, as he nodded at Kreacher and the little elf brought over food to slap down in front of Ron. He braced himself to speak the name, then added, “Or Ginny?”  
  
Ron closed his eyes. “She said yesterday that she was going to go on the road with the Wasps. I knew they’d been courting her for a little while, but she wouldn’t agree to be anything other than reserve Seeker. She was  _building a future_ with you here, and now it’s all gone.”  
  
Harry sighed. At this point, it just felt like another burden being placed on his shoulders when he couldn’t do anything about it anyway. “What do you want me to say, Ron?” he asked. “It’s not like I got cursed on purpose. I wanted to have a future with her just as much as she wanted to have one with me. But it didn’t work out.”  
  
Ron opened his eyes. “But you could have tried harder since then. It’s like you don’t even really care. What you should do is—”  
  
“Model myself after the Pensieve memories and try to be exactly like that?” Harry asked coldly. “Even though I can’t be in love with Ginny if I don’t  _remember_ falling in love with her? Even though I can’t be an Auror if I don’t remember the training? What exactly am I supposed to  _do_ , Ron?”  
  
Ron blinked, but didn’t retreat. “You were always in love with Ginny, mate. That part ought to be easy.”  
  
“No,” Harry said. “Otherwise, why would I have waited five years to get together with her?” He would try to avoid mentioning Rob, but he also won’t going to roll over and pretend Ron was right about everything.  
  
“But—you were in love with her at Hogwarts.”  
  
Harry touched his scar for a moment. “No, I liked her,” he said. “But then we broke up pretty easily when you and Hermione and I went on the hunt for Horcruxes. If I didn’t want to protect her so much, I would have brought her along. I think it just proves that I cared more about you and Hermione at the time than I did about her.”  
  
Ron stared at him. Then he said, “But if you wanted to protect her, that means you cared about her.”  
  
“Not enough to bring her with me.” Harry charged on when Ron opened his mouth to say something else, because he really didn’t think he would manage to bring it home to Ron otherwise. “You brought Hermione with you, right? You never thought she should stay behind to be protected even though you loved her.”  
  
Ron flushed deeply. Then he picked at his fingernails. “I don’t know exactly what my feelings for her were during that year,” he muttered.  
  
“But you still came with her,” Harry said. “I’m not—Old Harry was the one who had the time to know her and fall in love with Ginny. I’m not him, Ron. I can’t be.”  
  
“But the potential for all of the things he was are still somewhere in you.” Ron glanced up at Harry with a flash of his eyes so keen that Harry froze. “Unless you’re going to pretend that you don’t love our kids, and you’re not our friend, and you’re not capable of being a good Auror.”  
  
“I’m sure I’ll love your kids when I get to know them again,” Harry muttered softly. “And I was your friend before I lost my memory. I still—Ron, the strongest memories I have of you and Hermione are from seventh year. It was a few  _months_ ago that we were all in the Forest of Dean. It was a few weeks ago that we rode the dragon out of Gringotts. Or that’s what it seems like to me, anyway. And I already answered you about the Auror thing.”  
  
Ron was silent. Harry started slightly when another owl came winging through the window. It wasn’t the same one as before, but the paper it slapped down in front of him seemed to be from the same person.  
  
 _I need some answers. The peasants are getting restless. Kelvin_.  
  
Again the owl took off. Harry shook his head at the letter, and then realized Ron had moved around the table and was trying to read it over his shoulder. Harry let him. He had no idea who Kelvin was, anyway, and no idea whether it would be a good idea or not to let Ron read the letter, but it would be more suspicious to act like he couldn’t.  
  
“You know  _Kelvin_?”  
  
“No, I don’t, because he must have been someone I met before I lost my memory,” Harry said, and turned hopefully towards Ron. “Do you?”  
  
Ron’s face looked awful, paler than it had been when he was telling Harry about Ginny going back to her Quidditch career. “Yes,” he said in a choked voice. “He’s—he’s a Potions brewer who came up with a poison that killed a whole bunch of people in Diagon Alley three years ago. He fled to France when we tried to catch him, and then further on. We have no idea where he is now.” He divided his unbelieving gaze between the letter and Harry.  
  
Harry closed his eyes. He had somehow decided, with realizing he had, that all the people Old Harry was blackmailing must be good ones, simply because Old Harry himself was so awful. But of course there was the chance that people who had secrets Old Harry could blackmail them with wouldn’t be good.  
  
“Then take these letters, for what good it’ll do,” he said, and held the second one out to Ron along with the one he’d got earlier. “Maybe you can track it down by his magical signature.” He had no idea if Aurors could do that, but he’d thought something in one of the memories Ginny showed him implied they could. Then he looked around for the owl, but it had flown away already.  
  
“Harry.” Ron’s hand was on the letter, twisting and crumpling it, not handling it carefully like Harry thought he should handle evidence. “ _How_ did you know Kelvin?”  
  
Harry felt as though someone had been plucking on a string that stretched around his heart, and the plucking went down and down and became vibrations in his bones. His breathing was coming short. The room filled with swimming colors.  
  
“Harry? I need to know.”  
  
“I don’t  _fucking remember_!” Harry roared, and Ron stumbled back from the force of that roar. Harry leaped to his feet and stared as hard as he could at Ron, willing him to understand. “Will you  _grasp that?_  I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t  _know_!”  
  
Ron stared at him with his mouth open.   
  
“I found a whole bunch of letters and papers and ledgers in a hidden compartment in the bedroom that Ginny had no idea was there,” Harry said, and began to pace back and forth. “And in a drawer in the desk that she didn’t know was there. And it implied I was blackmailing people.” He began to laugh hysterically, at the same moment as the vibrations traveled into his lungs and made him short of breath. He sounded horrible, leaning against the wall and wheezing. “Maybe Kelvin was one of them. Maybe I was working with him to catch other criminals, or on some illegal potion. I  _don’t know_ , Ron. He’s dead, your friend is  _dead,_ and I  _don’t remember anything!_ ”  
  
Ron shook his head slowly back and forth. “You’ll have to testify,” he whispered. “To receiving these letters, and knowing him. And you’ll have to turn all the papers over to the Aurors as evidence.”  
  
“Then I’ll only be able to testify to receiving the letters.” Harry slumped back in his chair. He’d stopped laughing, but his chest ached so badly that he would have been almost better if he’d still been, he thought. “I don’t remember any of the rest.”  
  
“You found the papers. You must have remembered what the compartments were, and where they were.”  
  
Harry shook his head. “I got suspicious because one of the drawers had a handle shaped like a snake. I tried Parseltongue, and that opened it. I only found the other compartments because I was on the lookout after that. I didn’t remember where they were.”  
  
“You told us that you couldn’t speak Parseltongue anymore.” Ron’s freckles looked like small dots on a piece of utterly white parchment.  
  
“I don’t remember what I told you and didn’t tell you. I don’t remember what  _he_ told you and didn’t tell you.” Harry pulled at his hair. The slight sting grounded him and made him remember—ha—that he had already said that and Ron hadn’t listened.  
  
Well, this time he was going to. Harry stood up and said, “Take those letters and go do what you have to do. Tell me what it’s going to come to. In the meantime, I’d like to be alone.”  
  
“You’ll have to testify—”  
  
“Yeah, tell me when you find out what laws I’m supposed to obey, as a man who has no memories of his crimes,” Harry told him tiredly, and sat down again.  
  
The silence between them stretched and lengthened, and Ron finally went to the Floo, holding out his hand as if he thought the powder would deposit itself in his palm. Then he shook his head and reached into the bowl, but it still took him long seconds because he didn’t take his eyes from Harry.  
  
“You ought to be more careful, Harry,” he whispered. “The memories that you lost? Well, they—they were the real you. I don’t know this you at all.” He threw the powder into the fire and was gone.  
  
Harry let his head sink into his arms. Kreacher went about cleaning up the kitchen, and once or twice he might have said something, but Harry only grunted in return. His stomach was filled with the cold, useless lump of his breakfast, and he wanted to swear and groan.  
  
But he sat there, silent, and let conclusions tumble through his head like falling stars.  
  
Old Harry had been a criminal, had probably conspired to shield Kelvin from the other Aurors, and might have done worse than that. And no matter how much he watched the memories that Malfoy’s potion would bring up, Harry doubted that he would ever  _really_ understand the man.   
  
Understand himself. Ron seemed to think the Ministry might decide Old Harry and Harry himself were one and the same, and try him for his crimes even if he couldn’t remember the whole thing.  
  
Harry sighed out, long and slow. He had known what he was doing when he talked about the hidden compartments to Ron, and he had decided to do it anyway. And he was serious about the process of atonement. If he ended up going to prison for Old Harry’s crimes, well, that might be what was necessary to atone.  
  
But he thought he could understand, at the moment, why Old Harry had sometimes sought out Malfoy’s company. There might be complexities there, but nothing like the web that had exploded around Harry now and estranged him from his friends.


	13. Intoxication

Harry stood with the official Ministry summons in his hand and tried to look calm and collected and poised. He had no idea if he’d succeeded. The woman who’d let him into Kingsley’s office had certainly looked at him oddly.  
  
Kingsley, at the moment, was standing with his back to Harry, staring out an enchanted window that gave Harry a view of a beach with pure blue water curling gently up onto it. There seemed to be a tropical sun and palm trees, too. Harry wished intensely that he was there.  
  
“Why did you commit these crimes?” Kingsley asked, without turning around.  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
That didn’t seem to be the right answer, from the way Kingsley faced him and shuffled through the papers on his desk. “You implied to Auror Weasley that you had evidence in your position which documented your crimes for a long period of time. Where is it?”  
  
There was a strange shifting feeling in Harry’s chest, at that moment. It was as if something he had treasured and tried to protect for a long time had just shattered, and Harry took a long step back from himself.  
  
“In the house I shared with Ginny Weasley.” Harry thought his lips felt numb, but the words came out with perfect precision. “There’s a drawer in the desk in my study that can only be opened by someone using Parseltongue. It has a handle shaped like a serpent. Then there’s a compartment in the wall by my side of the bed. It should take some searching to find the outline of the door, but you’ll be able to see it if you look.”  
  
Kingsley stared at him. Then he said, “You’re acting as if you  _do_ know.”  
  
“I’m giving you the location of the compartments I know of,” Harry countered. He wanted to scream. He wanted to say,  _You’re treating me like a suspect who knows everything, like Ron is “Auror Weasley” and not my friend, and like you don’t believe me when I say my memories are gone. Why the hell_ shouldn’t  _I be as neutral and distant as possible?_  
  
“There may be more, then?” Kingsley pulled a sheet of parchment towards himself and poised his quill.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Where are they?”  
  
“I don’t know.” Harry had never expected to feel so grateful that the rules of Gringotts prevented him from talking or even implying anything about the existence of his Shadow Vault.  
  
Kingsley threw down the quill and stood up, staring at Harry with appealing eyes. “Harry,” he whispered. “I’m trying to help you, here. It’s a pretty bad sign that you’re receiving friendly letters from Kelvin, but we can try to mitigate the effects of your involvement. But not if you don’t tell us the truth.”  
  
Harry found himself grinning. It was a strange sensation, just like the breaking one in the center of his chest.  _Now_ it felt as if the skin on his face had peeled away from everything and he was just a skull baring his teeth at Kingsley. “I  _don’t know_. I  _forgot_. Test me with Veritaserum if you want,” he added, when Kingsley stared at him as if he thought Harry was mocking him. “I won’t be able to tell you the truth no matter how much you try to force me, though.”  
  
Kingsley shook his head, the motions slow and tragic. Then he turned away and walked out of the office. Harry heard the door lock click shut.  
  
He sat down in the chair before Kingsley’s desk and stared out the window. The soft sound of the waves and the white clouds racing through that pale blue sky didn’t really relax him. Instead, it seemed to set his mind to buzzing as he tore through the implications.  
  
The way they treated him was all wrong for someone who they thought was  _really_ innocent and had forgotten things. Yet they’d had plenty of time to read the reports from the Healers—from Hermione, even—and figure out that he wasn’t faking his memory loss.   
  
Harry thought they were treating him differently because they saw him as a different person. He wasn’t the great Harry Potter who’d been a top Auror and the boyfriend of Ron’s sister and an exemplary citizen. He was just someone who looked like him. It would be simple if they could blame everything evil on  _him_. This new Harry Potter. Then they wouldn’t have to tarnish their image of the old one.  
  
 _And it’s strange, the way I feel._  
  
Harry didn’t think he was really planning to run away, or deny the evidence they’d find in the letters and ledgers and whatever else he’d kept in those drawers and little locked safes. He would go along with the trial, let them use Veritaserum if they wanted, and answer questions to the best of his ability.  
  
But he wouldn’t pretend any longer that he was sorry about Old Harry dying. He wouldn’t get upset if they treated him like a stranger, because that was what he  _was_ to them. And he wouldn’t strive to be like Old Harry and try to pick up his life where he’d left it off.  
  
Because Old Harry was dead. And while Harry could see himself going to prison to atone for those crimes, killing himself, in turn, just because he couldn’t be Old Harry was stupid.  
  
 _I’m going to live._  
  
*  
  
It seemed like an hour before Ron and Kingsley came back into the office, holding a whole bunch of letters and papers and ledgers and wrapped packages. Harry didn’t know for sure, though. They’d taken his wand, and there was no clock in Kingsley’s office.  
  
Ron dumped the drawer from Harry’s study down in the middle of the desk. Harry looked at it. It had obviously been torn off its hinges, and the serpent handle was half-broken. “That’s where the ledgers were that have the most information on who he blackmailed,” he said.  
  
“I also found out that you used to date someone before Ginny.” Ron’s voice was flat. “A man?”  
  
Harry gave him that skull-like grin. “And is that another crime I’m being tried for? Is it because I never told you, or because he’s a man, or because I  _dared_ to date someone who wasn’t Ginny?”  
  
Ron opened his mouth, but Kingsley touched his arm and shook his head. Harry watched it all with his heart beating hard but his head filled with that drifting serenity.  _So strange._ It seemed as if he was aching all through his limbs and objective, present and removed, at the same time.  
  
“We aren’t here to question you about that,” said Kingsley. “But these potential crimes are very serious, Harry.”  
  
He didn’t say anything else, forcing Harry to realize after a second that he wanted an answer. Harry nodded. “I agree. If there’s anything else I can tell you, then I will.” That wouldn’t include the Shadow Vault, and after thinking about it, Harry had decided that he wouldn’t tell them about Malfoy, or his museum, or the potion he was brewing that would enable Harry to see some of his old memories. It would just get more questions and probably a stop put to the process.  
  
 _If I can learn something about myself, then I can tell them more anyway._  
  
Kingsley took the chair behind his desk. Ron fidgeted around behind Harry until Kingsley told him sharply to stand against the door. Ron crossed his arms and did that with a huff, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling.   
  
“I want to know, first of all,” Kingsley whispered, “why you didn’t come to us the minute you found out about the drawer and the ledgers.”  
  
Harry blinked. “Is that a trick question?”  
  
“ _No_ ,” Kingsley said, his voice rough.  
  
“Because I didn’t understand anything, of course,” Harry said, trying to explain without sounding too disrespectful. “Maybe it was something good. There weren’t clear enough notes for me to figure out what was going on. And everyone around me kept insisting that Old Harry was a great bloke, a great Auror. I couldn’t believe he would be involved in anything illegal.”  
  
“But if you’d told us, then we could have reassured you that it wasn’t anything good,” Kingsley said.  
  
Harry sighed. “Why should I have, simply because I found something I didn’t understand? I mean, why should I have come to  _you_ , sir? I might have told my friends, that’s true. But why did I owe you the right to peer into my head and talk to me about my morals?”  
  
“Because you were an Auror. That means that you’re responsible for the reputation of the Department along with your own. And we had quite a friendship, outside the office and the constraints of your cases. At least,” and Kingsley’s voice went soulful while he looked over Harry’s head towards the door, “I thought we did.”  
  
“I wasn’t going to be an Auror again. I can’t remember anything about this famous friendship. My friends got upset whenever I revealed how different I was from the Harry they knew. What was I supposed  _to do?_ ”  
  
Kingsley remained silent, apparently stymied. Ron was the one who spoke up. “We could have told you that we didn’t know about it. You would have been brought in earlier.”  
  
“And so I would have spent more time in a holding cell?” Harry sighed and turned around in his chair to look at Ron. “Spending more time cooped up and waiting for trial isn’t actually a great incentive, Ron.”  
  
Ron chewed his lip. His eyes and his face blazed, but if he knew what to say, he didn’t want to voice it. Harry shook his head. “Please be honest with me.  _Please_.”  
  
“The Harry I knew never  _would_ have done this,” Ron whispered. “It has to be—we found the names of some seriously  _wrong_ people in those ledgers. Why couldn’t this be evidence they planted? Maybe they even planned for you to lose your memory and take the fall so that you couldn’t tell us for certain that they’d done it?”  
  
By the way Kingsley caught his breath, he was hoping for that to be true. Harry only went on staring. When the obvious solution didn’t suggest itself to anyone else, he sighed, went ahead, and voiced it. “In a drawer locked with Parseltongue? Are any of them Parselmouths?” He would actually be interested in that answer.  
  
Ron looked down. “No,” he muttered.  
  
“And in the private hidden compartments in my house?” Harry shook his head. “No, he did it. I did it, if you want to get technical. But I can only tell you what I know, and that isn’t much.”  
  
“You told us that you weren’t a Parselmouth anymore.” Ron looked up. In his eyes was such a shining pattern of devastation that Harry couldn’t even be annoyed at him. Ron was seeing a whole ten years of friendship fall to pieces, and that had to be hard. “Why did you lie about that?”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
“Can you make a guess?”  
  
Kingsley was keeping quiet. Harry didn’t know if he saw the same thing in Ron’s eyes that Harry did and was trying to give Ron a chance to get used to it or not, but then, it was useless to  _guess_. He rubbed his scar and gave the only answer he could imagine. “Maybe because he knew how freaked out you would be if he was still a Parselmouth? So he kept it to himself.”  
  
“You keep talking about  _him_ and  _you_ like they’re two separate people.”  
  
“It feels that way.” Harry turned to Kingsley. “Sir, can I know what’s going to happen? Am I going to a holding cell? Am I going back home under house arrest? What?”  
  
Kingsley remained utterly silent and frowning. Then he shook his head and said, “There’s no usual procedure in place for this. In the case of criminals who  _Obliviated_ themselves, we bring in an expert in the Mind Arts who can dig through their minds and find the memories they hid. But I understand you underwent the ministrations of a Legilimens in hospital, and it didn’t do any good.”  
  
“And you have to work out whether it’s a crime and how much I’m really responsible for,” Harry said. He decided not to smile. It would make him look mocking, and he really didn’t feel that way. He just felt immensely tired.  
  
“Right.” Kingsley exchanged a look with Ron that Harry couldn’t read. Perhaps his old self would once have been able to. “Well. I’ve decided to send you home, Harry. I’ll ask that you send any other suspicious letters you get on to us. And don’t go somewhere without informing us first.” He sighed. “Other than that, you’re free for right now.”  
  
“Thank you,” Harry said, and stood.  
  
*  
  
Ron had left not long after he got Harry back to Grimmauld Place. Harry waited to see if he would talk to him, but Ron seemed intimidated by Kreacher’s scowl. Harry had to admit that he would have felt the same, in his place.  
  
And so Harry sat down again in the library, feeling much the same way he had when he sat in front of Kingsley’s desk, and didn’t even feel surprised when he glanced up and saw Malfoy sitting across from him, staring at him. Kreacher had let him through the Floo, or the door, without telling Harry. That seemed normal.  
  
Harry nodded to the strange flask that Malfoy had, so round it looked more like a crystal ball with a hole in the top. “Is that the potion?”  
  
“What I can make of it without your pain,” said Malfoy. “It doesn’t come fully alive until you complete the pain ritual.”  
  
“So it’s inert until then,” Harry muttered. “That’s probably Dark or something.”  
  
“I did tell you not to tell anyone else about this.”  
  
Harry had in fact forgotten that promise, but it was another reason for being glad that he hadn’t mentioned Malfoy to Kingsley and Ron. They might find his name in the ledgers, but that didn’t mean they would leap straight to realizing that Malfoy and Harry had a continuing association. “You’re right,” he said. “Sorry.” He stretched out his arm.  
  
“What’s wrong with you, Potter?”  
  
 _Do I seem that different to him?_ Maybe he did, to someone who had once known him well. Harry shrugged. “Someone I used to know sent me owls when Ron was here. He recognized the name. A seriously evil Potions brewer who fled the country. I don’t remember anything of the connection, of course. But Ron took me to the Ministry and he and Kingsley discussed whether I’d be arrested. Right now I’m just sort of on a watch list.”  
  
Malfoy stood up abruptly. Harry thought he would ask whether  _he_ was in any danger, but instead he demanded, “How can they arrest you for something you didn’t do?”  
  
“I  _don’t remember_ doing,” Harry corrected softly. “That isn’t the same thing.”  
  
He might as well have been talking to a statue. “Where are they going to get their evidence?” Malfoy asked, and then laughed harshly. “Probably the same place that the Ministry gets half their evidence, making it up.”  
  
Harry shrugged quietly, watching Malfoy. “I don’t think they should connect you with anything. Your name is in the ledgers recording that I paid you for a potion, but that’s all. If they question you, face them down. I’m sure you can.”  
  
Malfoy shook his head at him. “If they don’t have any evidence of exactly what you did and you don’t remember so you can’t tell them, how are they going to arrest you?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Harry said, and told the truth. “I think it might make them feel better to arrest me because they can believe someone they didn’t know would do this, but they can’t feel the same way about Old Harry. This lets them keep believing that he was a hero.” He shook his arm a little. “Come on, Malfoy. I decided that I wanted to suffer by having you cut my arm. Can we get on with it?”  
  
Malfoy came striding up to look in his eyes. He seemed careless about the glass ball of potion in his hand, but even when Harry shifted uneasily, Malfoy didn’t look in that direction. He just kept his eyes pinned on Harry’s face.  
  
“I’m not going to see you arrested,” Malfoy whispered. “How much research would I lose? How much time? I would never know for certain what went wrong, or what you were thinking.”  
  
“At the moment,” Harry said, “that’s the least of  _my_ concerns.”  
  
Malfoy’s breathing stopped for a moment, and two intense points of color flared on his cheeks. Harry had no idea why. Maybe just hearing about Harry’s disregard was enough to get him angry, though.  
  
But a second later, he was doing what Harry had requested, drawing his blade and scraping it along Harry’s arm, in a longer and deeper cut than the one he’d used when he was taking the skin for the potion. So Harry reckoned that it didn’t much matter why Malfoy did it.  
  
The pain sliced into Harry’s system, this time. Malfoy wasn’t trying to collect blood or skin, he was just cutting, and Harry appreciated the difference through gritted teeth. His head pounded and leaped and throbbed, the blood sobbing against his temples, and Harry ended up ducking his head so that it was between his knees and he couldn’t see the blood. Malfoy cut again, and the sharpness that didn’t let Harry feel the agony immediately seemed worse than being  _able_ to feel it, so that when it came welling up, he gave a short scream without thinking.  
  
Malfoy curled an arm around his shoulders. He was whispering something, but Harry barely paid attention to his words, because they made no  _sense_.  
  
“…you’re not him, and that’s wonderful. I won’t let them take you away. I won’t let them hurt you. I won’t—”  
  
His words got eaten up in a crackling, hissing flame of power. Harry blinked and turned his head. A ghostly shape of Harry himself floated above the glass ball in which Malfoy held the potion, and Malfoy nodded slowly.  
  
“The potion is ready.”


	14. The Open Door

Harry took another bite of the cherry tart that Malfoy had bullied Kreacher into making, and looked longingly at the door of the kitchen. Upstairs was the completed potion, and the best chance of getting a glimpse of his memories. Harry didn’t understand why he had to wait  _now_ , when they had finally got something done.  
  
“You know perfectly well why,” Malfoy said. Harry might have thought Malfoy could read his mind, but he trusted Malfoy enough now to know that was unlikely to happen. Malfoy moved a finger in front of his face, and Harry sighed and turned back to eating the cherry tart.   
  
“You’re perfectly obvious,” Malfoy murmured. “And the ritual took more out of you than you know.”  
  
“It was a little pain,” Harry objected, turning his arm to stare down at the patch where Malfoy had cut in and made his blood flow. Malfoy had healed it—he’d insisted that Harry shouldn’t, that he should save all his magic for the “struggle” with the potion—and Harry couldn’t even see a place it had been cut. “I’m already recovered.”  
  
“You need food.”  
  
Harry turned back to his plate, because with both Malfoy and Kreacher, who acted like “a true Black” was God, he knew he wouldn’t get away with pretending to eat. He’d already had a sandwich with the meat rare enough that it tasted coppery on his tongue and a huge glass of orange juice. Then Malfoy had commanded Kreacher to bring the tart.  
  
It wasn’t that it wasn’t good. The problem was that Harry had more important things on his mind right now than cherry tarts.  
  
“And we need to talk.”  
  
Harry started. That was the first time Malfoy had said that, despite the way he sat on the other side of the table and eyed the food passing into Harry’s mouth as if he wanted it for himself. Harry had honestly thought they would go back upstairs just as silently. Malfoy was treating Harry like an experiment he wanted to work out, and as long as it did, Harry was fine with that.  
  
Now, though…  
  
“What about?” he asked, taking another bite of tart and looking around for a second. That was a mistake, since it made Kreacher plop a glass of milk firmly in front of him. Harry opened his mouth.  
  
Kreacher wagged a finger at him. “Master Harry is only to be opening his mouth to put food in,” he said.  
  
Harry grumbled and did so. Malfoy, in the meantime, had leaned forwards and rested his elbows on the table. Harry was a little shocked at his bad manners, but Malfoy didn’t notice. He watched every motion of Harry’s swallowing throat instead.  
  
“We need to talk about where you’re going to go from here,” said Malfoy. “You told me about the Aurors. Do you think you’ll want to confront them again when you have some of your memories back? Go to your friends? Give a press conference?”  
  
“Definitely not the last one,” Harry said hastily. There had been rumors swirling about him in the papers, he knew. Ron and Kingsley were loyal and wouldn’t say anything about the newest development, but someone might have seen him enter the Ministry. And the public was getting bored reading the same facts about his amnesia over and over again. Someone would probably try to seize him going to the Ministry and run with it. “I just want to—to see what happens.”  
  
“But you should have a plan. Otherwise, people can take advantage of you.”  
  
Harry cocked his head curiously. “Are you counting yourself among the people who would do that, Malfoy? It sounds  _interesting_ if you are.”  
  
Astonishingly, Malfoy flushed and shook his head. “No,” he said. “I was—look, Potter, for years we worked together on this potion you wanted, but I also took the other curiosities you saw from your body and stored in my lab.”  
  
“What a word,” Harry muttered. He would have shoved his food away, remembering those alcoves full of floating pieces of himself, except that Kreacher happened to be standing off to the side with a skillet. Harry gave him a sullen look and began crunching his way through the tart once more.  
  
“It’s the best one.” Malfoy’s eyes shone like the moon. “And I thought that you were lying about losing your memory at first. Then I thought it was an experiment you’d conducted on your own, one that was successful at turning you back into the kind of man you wanted to be.”  
  
Harry stared at him, one forkful poised in the air until Kreacher took hold of his wrist and pushed it towards his mouth. Well, that explained some things about Malfoy’s attitude when they’d first met.  
  
Harry ate his way through that slice of the cherry tart, and then said, “All right. You’ve decided I’m not those things. Now what?”  
  
“I want to learn who you are. What you’ll become.” Malfoy’s eyes flashed. Harry thought uneasily that it was sort of a metallic flash. “Because you’re already a more interesting person than the man I worked with for years who wouldn’t tell me anything about himself.”  
  
“I won’t give you more blood or skin for potions unless they benefit me directly. And I’m not consumed anymore with that desire not to be a bad person, or get rid of my Darkness, or however he phrased it.”  
  
Malfoy nodded. “I know.”  
  
“Then  _why_  do you want to know what I’m going to do?” The words burst out of Harry without his permission, but from the slight way Malfoy recoiled, he hadn’t expected them. Harry, though, was swept away by them, consumed by them. “I can’t offer you anything now. We weren’t friends. We weren’t—lovers, like me and Rob were.” Harry had to pause and gasp those words, but he still hurried on before Malfoy could say anything. “What motive could you possibly have for continuing to care what happens to me?”  
  
Malfoy smiled, and his head tilted to the side until it was almost completely horizontal. The dreaded word broke from his lips again. “Curiosity.”  
  
Harry tightened his hand on his fork. “I told you that I won’t be anyone’s curiosity.”  
  
“I want to know what’ll happen to you.” Malfoy shrugged and continued watching him. “Surely that should be enough of an explanation. You can think of me as an experimenter. Or you can think of me as a friend.”  
  
The last words got muttered in such a soft voice that Harry didn’t hear them at first. Only a second later did he work through them and understand what Malfoy was saying.  
  
He gave a bitter snort. “You’ve chosen a hell of a time to ask for my friendship, Malfoy. I could end up in Azkaban for all you know.”  
  
“It’s not the benefits of your friendship that I’m asking for,” Malfoy said, and lifted his head, eyes locking on Harry so fiercely that Harry felt his mouth drying out. “It’s your friendship.”  
  
Harry opened his mouth, then closed it. He couldn’t pretend that he didn’t know the difference between those things. And Malfoy continued watching him silently glinting eyes.   
  
“All right,” Harry said. “I don’t think it would be a bad idea to have more friends now. And ones who don’t seem to care that much about what I did when I was Old Harry.”  
  
“Especially ones who will understand you when you make that distinction,” Malfoy said, and settled back with a pleased smile that transformed his face. “Eat your lunch-dinner.”  
  
Harry did, pretending to gaze off into the distance. If he didn’t, he would just stare at Malfoy, and Malfoy would probably find that amusing or affecting. Harry wasn’t ready for either emotion right now.  
  
On the other hand, from the way Malfoy smiled, he knew what Harry was about and found it amusing anyway. But as long as he smiled down at his plate and didn’t say anything, Harry could pretend they were simply on an equal footing. Malfoy was polite enough to hold in his laughter.  
  
Almost like…a friend.  
  
*  
  
“How do we do this?”  
  
Malfoy had taken Harry back into the library, and then ordered Kreacher to take all the books out of the room. Kreacher had done it while sniveling in ecstasy. Harry didn’t know if that was because he got to take orders from a Black or because he got to hoard Black possessions.  
  
“We do this by you facing me, first of all,” Malfoy said.  
  
Harry turned obediently around and realized that Malfoy had already used his wand to sear an oval into the carpet. It surrounded them. Harry smiled a little. “You realize Kreacher’s not going to be happy about that?”  
  
Malfoy didn’t smile back. “You need to concentrate, Potter,” he muttered, and held up the flask. “Otherwise, this is going to take you to random times and points in your life. You have to want to see those memories more than anything else in the world.”  
  
Harry felt his smile vanish. “That is  _not_ going to be a problem,” he said softly, and fixed his eyes on the potion.  
  
“You’ll feel like you’re alone,” Malfoy continued. “Or only with the projections of the past that this might create. But I’ll be here. You need to remember that, all right? Because otherwise, there’s also the chance that you might get lost in the memories and wander forever.”  
  
Harry swallowed, feeling his throat sting. “Not that this isn’t scary or anything.”  
  
“You see now why it’s a Dark potion.”  
  
Harry nodded once. Malfoy seemed to relax. “Good,” he said. “Hold out your hands.”  
  
Harry did, and Malfoy cast another spell that he didn’t recognize. Something large and square and made of iron sprouted at once from the floor, with two holes in the middle of it. The holes closed around Harry’s wrists like manacles. He hissed and tried to yank them backwards instinctively, but he didn’t even manage to rock the large stocks or pillory or whatever it was.  
  
“Hold still,” Malfoy said. “You have this. This ensures you will.”  
  
Harry turned his glare into a tense nod. He understood why Malfoy was doing this, even why he hadn’t warned Harry about all the precautions before. There was the chance that Harry would have refused to do it.  
  
And that wasn’t what Harry wanted. He  _did_ want to see what had happened to him in the past, if only so that he could do something about the confused perceptions of his friends and the possibility that he might go to Azkaban.  
  
A disturbing thought occurred to him then.  _If I know what happened, then could they send me to Azkaban faster? I would know about it and Veritaserum might pull the truth out. They could question me._  
  
In the end, though, Harry shrugged away that question. He still wanted to know. There was the chance that he might wind up in prison no matter what happened, and if he did, he was going to have the knowledge to carry with him.  
  
Malfoy had begun to chant. Harry tried to listen, but the words seemed to slide strangely away from his ears. He found his gaze fixing on the potion flask, instead. The potion was swirling and glowing from the inside with a clear light that stung Harry’s eyes. Malfoy ended by lifting the flask as high as he could and then smashing it on the edge of the iron stocks that held Harry’s hands.  
  
Harry screamed as the potion poured over him. It seared his fingers, and made him feel as though he was holding them in boiling water. He would have jumped back and writhed all over, but the stocks held him firmly. He still cried out, and more still when he opened his eyes and realized that the room had faded. He was drifting through the middle of a transparent void, nothing beneath his feet, nothing to surround him.  
  
 _I am with you._  
  
Harry didn’t think Malfoy had actually said it. It seemed to be something that his mind had dreamed up. But he calmed himself down, and he turned and began to look around, striving to see colors in the void. If he was here for memories, then they had to be  _here_. He would find them.  
  
The void around him stirred and eddied like a crystal pond. Harry continued to search, though, and finally colors coalesced. He recognized himself, sitting at a heavy table in a room he  _didn’t_ recognize. Maybe it was at Shell Cottage or something. It wasn’t like he had got that much chance to study interior decorating when he was there.  
  
He looked the way he thought he should have looked when he woke up from the “nap” in St. Mungo’s. This had probably happened during the year of the Battle of Hogwarts, then. Harry leaned forwards, studying the picture intently.  
  
There were piles of white in front of him that at first Harry thought were snow. But then he realized they were letters—cascading across the table and piling up around it and falling in drifts from Old Harry’s hands and shoulders every time he moved. There was a lost, helpless look on his face.   
  
Harry looked around automatically, but he didn’t see the red of Howlers. Maybe this was before anyone had lost their tempers with Old Harry, or past the time when they had scolded him. He moved closer.  
  
Standing behind Old Harry, he could read over his shoulder. Harry looked at the first letter.  
  
 _We need support, and I don’t know what to do. With my husband dead in the war, we won’t have someone to work for us now. I can go out and work, I suppose, but I don’t know how. And what is our daughter going to do without a dad?_  
  
Old Harry tossed that letter down and scrabbled for another one. Harry caught a glimpse of a long sentence that began  _I’ve written to you about this before, but your comforting words were so kind that I hoped—_  
  
Another one.  _If you can see your way to donating more gold to the Orphans’ Fund, please do so. Every little bit helps! And, of course, speaking for us would do so much good, because I know you were an orphan yourself_ —  
  
 _I know this is presumptuous, Mister Potter, but our daughter, Amanda, is sixteen and feels like she wouldn’t be safe with anyone who isn’t you. Could you please see your way clear to agreeing to a betrothal at least until she’s eighteen?_  
  
 _The Ministry would welcome you to train as an Unspeakable, if you wanted to._  
  
 _Are you really going to marry Ginny Weasley? That’s what one of the stories from before the war said, but I hope not! Please tell me that you’ll stay single for a little while. It could be so important for your ability to go to the other side of the world and accept speaking engagements—_  
  
 _Our home has been burned down. We’ve been staying in a Muggle relative’s home since that happened, but what are we supposed to do next? Where are we supposed to go?_  
  
 _I don’t know who to turn to, which is why I’m writing to you. The Ministry took my wife’s wand away and we still haven’t got it back._  
  
 _Our littlest girl has cancer. What are we supposed to do?_  
  
Some variation of that question turned up in every letter that Old Harry leafed through, Harry saw.  _What are we supposed to do?_ Sometimes it seemed to be from people with truly hopeless problems, and sometimes from people who could have solved their problems with a little more effort, and sometimes from people who had no reason to be writing to Harry. But there they were.  
  
There they all were, and they piled up, and they wouldn’t be dismissed. Harry thought he could understand the tormented expression on Old Harry’s face far better than he would ever have dreamed.  
  
 _Someone_  had to do something about these problems. Harry couldn’t ignore them and be a good person. But what people wanted of him was multifarious, and self-contradictory. He couldn’t stay single and marry every girl in Britain at the same time. He couldn’t agree to multiple false and real betrothals. He couldn’t donate money to or speak at every meeting or rally that wanted him; there weren’t enough Galleons in the vault or enough hours in the day. He couldn’t get back every wand from the Ministry, and if he mastered the law enough to riddle out fair compensations for people, that would mean times when he wasn’t chasing down Dark wizards or stopping dangerous magical creatures or rebuilding Hogwarts or learning Healing magic to cure cancer.  
  
There they were, all of them, and more letters poured in as Harry watched, coming down the chimney and through the windows and from tilting baskets that spun to spill them into the room as they grew full. And voices cried out from their paper, the voices of people who needed and needed.  
  
Harry didn’t have all the answers, standing there and watching Old Harry struggle with the piles and piles of parchment. Among other things, he didn’t have the answer as to why Old Harry would have let the needs pile up and overwhelm him, changing him into another kind of person who did bad things instead of one who had the courage to tell people he couldn’t fulfill all their desires.   
  
But he thought he could see the beginning. And when that memory melted and took him into another one, Harry had the beginnings of an answer, too.  
  
 _If he eventually chose one path that he thought people wanted him to take—being an Auror, living an “acceptable” life, marrying Ginny…_  
  
 _Then it makes sense that he would want to suppress or change anything that has to do with that._  
  
Not an excuse. But it might be a reason.


	15. Images of a Hero

Harry opened his eyes, rubbing at his head. He stood inside a small, cramped room this time, so claustrophobic that he immediately thought of the cupboard. But it did seem to be a full-fledged room, although the window was as narrow as Uncle Vernon’s mind. There were even two chairs sitting close together, and the two people sitting on them leaned equally close together, whispering.  
  
Harry moved over to the side. He already knew one of the people was Old Harry, but he was stunned when he saw the other one was Kingsley.  
  
 _How could he talk to Old Harry about this and not remember it?_  
  
Glancing around in search of a date, Harry saw a calendar near the window that was dated the fifteenth of July, 1998. So a few months after the battle, then. Harry leaned an elbow on the wall and listened.  
  
“...going to cost more than a thousand Galleons to rebuild,” Kingsley was saying gloomily. “And if the Ministry contributes funds to it, then they’re going to demand even more of a say in how the school runs than they do already.”  
  
Old Harry’s face was set and pinched. “But can’t you do something about that, sir? Since you’re Acting Minister and all.”  
  
Kingsley made a sound that was a laugh if Harry was feeling imaginative. “There are old and established interests here, Harry, operating on levels that I’ve hardly begun to understand. I can make all sorts of proclamations, and they’re going to nod and smile, and then go on and do things their own way regardless.”  
  
“Someone should make  _them_ pay,” Old Harry said softly, his eyes focused on the window. “Someone should make  _them_ contribute their own money. They have it and to spare.”  
  
Kingsley sighed. “Right, but they didn’t become as powerful as they are by giving it away to charity.”  
  
Old Harry’s gaze drifted slowly back to Kingsley. “But it’s the school their own children attend.”  
  
“And they think it’ll be all the better for them having a say in it.”  
  
“I see.” The two words rang like an iron bar falling into place across a door, and made Harry shiver despite himself. Old Harry was sitting up like a lizard on his haunches. “Well. Someone has to do something about it.”  
  
“You won’t do anything crazy, will you, Harry?” Kingsley sounded a bit worried. “Ever since you came back from St. Mungo’s a fortnight ago, you’ve been…different. I don’t want you to think that all the responsibility for clearing this up rests on your shoulders. It doesn’t.”  
  
Harry shivered again. Those words flew towards Old Harry and clanged on his completely deaf ears. Harry knew that he wouldn’t have paid attention even if Kingsley had danced naked in front of him and shouted them, probably.  
  
He’d already made up his mind.  
  
“I’ll do what has to be done,” said Old Harry distantly, and smiled at Kingsley. The smile made Harry feel as though something was climbing his spine, something with long claws, but it must have looked different to Kingsley. “Thanks for inviting me here and telling me about this. The wizarding world needs more people who do what has to be done.”  
  
Kingsley gave him a cautious smile back, as though he didn’t know exactly what to make of Old Harry. “Of course. You know you can come and discuss things with me.”  
  
Old Harry nodded and stood. The memory was beginning to fall apart in clear, tinkling shards of crystal around Harry, and he had to focus.  
  
 _What was the memory from St. Mungo’s a fortnight before this? That’s the one I want to see._  
  
He felt kind of silly chanting that to himself, but the view turned around and around him, and then colors and images and figures  _did_ form out of it in response to the call he’d sent. Harry found himself in a room at what must be St. Mungo’s, although it didn’t look much like the ones he’d seen in the past.  
  
When he glanced around, he saw iron bars on the windows and glowing runes on the walls. Harry had no idea what they meant.  
  
 _Old Harry probably would have,_ Harry thought bitterly, and focused on the figure on the bed. It was huddled so small that Harry thought for a moment it must be curled almost in a fetal position. Then it moved a little more, and Harry saw it was a child.  
  
Perhaps five or six years old, no more than that. There were long bloody strips of skin hanging off his—her?—shoulders, and no hair left on the bald head. More blood lay dried there. The child was breathing with a bubbling sound, as though they had broken ribs or blood in their lungs.  
  
Harry stared with horror and pity. Then he turned around to the people in the room, Healers and Old Harry. Old Harry was standing bolt upright, not leaning on the wall, and he never took his eyes off the child even as the Healers spoke with him.  
  
“She won’t ever be right again,” one of the Healers was saying, with a long, slow shake of her head. “The magic made by the branded runes went straight into her brain. That’s why we can’t clean the blood off her. The runes just make her bleed again when we try.”  
  
“She can’t speak.” Old Harry’s voice was clipped, as if he was reciting information he’d already been told.  
  
Maybe he was, since one of the Healers nodded. “That’s right, Mr. Potter.” She turned around and cast a small spell at the bed. It dissolved into yellow light before it so much as touched the child. “And she screams. We can hear that. She moans in pain…” The Healer shut her eyes. “I don’t know who did this, and we can’t actually confirm to check because they’re probably buried under all the gore, but I think a rune for permanence is carved somewhere into her bones. She’ll always be like this.”  
  
Harry shivered. Old Harry took a step forwards and looked once more down at the bed with the child in it.  
  
“Do we know this was an attack by Death Eaters?” he whispered. “Or is there any possibility that it could be something else?”  
  
“We thought it was,” said the Healer nearest the bed, looking at Old Harry uncertainly, “because who else could do something this awful?”  
  
Old Harry nodded once to her, and then once again in response to whatever thoughts he was hearing. Then he drew his wand and cast the Patronus Charm. The stag that pranced out of his wand in response looked around as though expecting to find Dementors, didn’t, and turned back and scraped a hoof on the floor.  
  
The Healers gasped at the sight of it. Old Harry seemed to have turned to stone and didn’t hear them. “I want you to run through her,” he said. “Tell me what you see, if there’s runes.”  
  
Harry hesitated, wondering what in the world had made Old Harry think a Patronus could do that, but then the stag turned and flashed through the child’s body, and he closed his mouth. Maybe it had been luck, or something he’d read in the Black library or something, but it did seem to be true.  
  
The stag came trotting back out, and flashed through Old Harry in return. Old Harry closed his eyes and stood there moving his lips as if in response to some telepathic conversation. Then he opened them again and nodded.  
  
“Thank you,” he called.  
  
The Patronus faded. Old Harry looked at the child with a terrible expression on his face.  
  
“She has runes on her bones,” he said. “The stag said they looked like this.” He swept his wand through the air, and glowing lines appeared.   
  
Two of the Healers seemed paralyzed with indecisiveness, but the one nearest the bed moved forwards and studied those runes with intelligent eyes. “Yes,” she said a moment later. “Those are the runes for permanence that I feared were there when I saw her wounds.” She turned back to the bed. “She won’t recover.”  
  
“Then I would ask that you leave me with her,” said Old Harry.  
  
The other two Healers didn’t seem to need any arguments, and bolted for the door. But the third Healer turned around and frowned at him. “What are you going to do, Mr. Potter? You aren’t a Healer.”  
  
“No, I’m not,” said Old Harry, and met her eyes. “And that means I’m not bound by your oath to struggle against death.”  
  
For a moment, Harry felt as though the room was spinning around him, even though it was only a memory.  _He can’t seriously be suggesting what…it seems he’s suggesting._  
  
It seemed as though the Healer didn’t think he could either, because she stood there with big eyes. Old Harry finally sighed and said, “If you stay here, then you’ll be part of it. I don’t want you to be part of it. Unless you think you can change your mind and tell me that she  _will_ get better sometime in the future?”  
  
His voice held an indefinable hope. But the Healer shook her head. “Some of those runes are also for permanent nightmares,” she whispered. “Permanent, as in, they’ll happen all the time. She’s not able to wake up.”  
  
“I see.” Old Harry was speaking as though he was the one with the runes carved on him and blood all over his body. “Then leave, please.”  
  
At the door, the Healer paused one more time, apparently assuming she should say something. But she couldn’t think of anything to say, and finally she left.  
  
 _That was tacit permission_.  
  
Harry thought the words in a kind of daze, and he turned to watch as Old Harry moved up beside the bed and stood next to the girl. He stroked her hair back from her tormented face and whispered words that Harry found himself not wanting to hear. He didn’t want to intrude.  
  
Then he told himself this was a  _memory_ , and  _his_ memory, and he was being perfectly ridiculous, and it could be important, and he walked up beside them. But his feet still dragged.  
  
“I’m sorry you have to suffer like this,” Old Harry whispered. “It’s not your fault. I’m going to catch the people who did this to you, and I’m going to make sure that all the senseless hatreds and idiotic wars  _stop_. The Death Eaters will go to prison. People who think they can get away with crimes are going to pay for it even if I can’t find evidence of it right away. And I’m going to be—I’m going to live a good life, a life where no one can point at me and say that I’m the bad person. To make up for doing this.”  
  
He pointed the wand at the little girl’s chest and whispered, “ _Interventus cordis_.”  
  
The spell that blossomed from the wand hit the little girl, and for a moment, Harry could hear a muffled sound like someone punching a pillow. Her heart, he realized. The spell seemed to make the sound of her heart audible.  
  
And then it—stopped it. Interfered with it. The noise stopped, and at the same moment, so did the little whimpers that emerged from the child.  
  
Old Harry waited as though he thought the heartbeat might start up again. Then he leaned over and closed the little girl’s eyes with one hand. His hand came away smeared with blood, but he didn’t seem to notice.  
  
He just stared and stared. Harry’s own eyes stung, and he had to turn away to swipe at them, but Old Harry’s eyes were tearless.  
  
 _I could see why this would mess someone up._ But it didn’t seem to explain everything, so Harry concentrated on another memory.  
  
 _I want to know where he learned the spell to stop a heart. That’s not normal._  
  
The world eddied around him again.  
  
*  
  
When the potion settled, Harry stared around. He didn’t recognize where he was, but it still looked familiar, full of odd angles and shadows. Only when one of those shadows moved and bumped into a table did he realize it was the Burrow’s kitchen. But it was night and dark, only a little bit of starlight and moonlight coming in through the windows.  
  
And there were dark shapes creeping through the kitchen, heading for the stairs that led up to the bedrooms.  
  
Harry drew his wand instinctively, then shook his head. He didn’t think he would see this if the only witnesses had been the Death Eaters, which meant Old Harry had to be around somewhere. He turned his head back and forth, trying to see.  
  
There he was, on the stairs. He sat as still as an owl, and the Death Eaters who’d started to climb seemed unaware of him. Harry moved over to the side where he could see more of the battle, and wondered if anyone else was there. Was Old Harry defending the house by himself, or had he told the others to clear out on purpose?  
  
Then Old Harry raised his wand and lit the darkness with a gold and scarlet explosion, at the same time as Hermione’s voice yelled “ _Expelliarmus!_ ” from behind a chair and Ron popped up from next to her and Stunned a Death Eater.  
  
The battle that followed was frantic, but mostly for the Death Eaters. Even keyed up and ready to take on opponents, Harry thought, they were so surprised that they’d been caught, they couldn’t muster most of the necessary reserves to actually strike back effectively. They rolled and fell over things, and tripped on things, and cursed in a way that didn’t power incantations.  
  
Ron Stunned two. Hermione Disarmed several and captured one with a net that she’d apparently Transfigured from a blanket.  
  
And Old Harry leaped down the stairs and knocked over three of them that way, then landed and started fighting for his life.  
  
Just because of the thick summer-looking grass out the window, Harry didn’t think he’d started Auror training yet. But maybe he had. He fought like he was crazy, like he was desperate. He slammed people’s heads together and kneed men in the groin and used one spell that almost cut off a woman’s breast. He flicked something nonverbal at one of the remaining Death Eaters that started him convulsing on the ground. Harry didn’t think it was the Cruciatus Curse, but it looked pretty close.  
  
 _Was that the way I looked, towards the end of the war?_ It would have been only a few weeks or months back, Harry thought, that Old Harry had used the Unforgivable on Amycus Carrow for his disrespect to McGonagall.  
  
The battle seemed to be over. The adults were all down and groaning. Old Harry leaned forwards and shook Hermione and Ron’s hands. His cheeks and eyes were glowing. When he wasn’t fighting, Harry thought, he didn’t look desperate.  
  
But then one of the Death Eaters they’d overlooked rose up from behind a couch, aimed his wand, and hissed, “ _Interventus Cordis!_ ”  
  
It looked like he was aiming the spell at Hermione. Old Harry pushed her into the table, out of the way, and turned around and lifted a shield before himself, lightning-quick.  
  
Not quick enough to catch all of the spell, though, or maybe this shield wasn’t one that would actually block that spell. A flicker of green light caught Old Harry on the chest, and he screamed and clutched his heart.  
  
The Death Eater laughed until Hermione Disarmed him and Ron took him down with a Stunner. Then they ran over and knelt beside Old Harry.  
  
Harry moved off to the side so he could see better. Hermione was pumping frantically at Old Harry’s ribs and blowing into his mouth, while Ron cast spells that Harry recognized as minor Healing charms. Of course Harry knew Old Harry had survived this, but it made him feel sick anyway as he stood there. He wondered why the memories he’d asked Hermione and Ron for, of the few weeks after the war, hadn’t included  _this_.  
  
Old Harry coughed and choked and got breathing again. Hermione burst out weeping and held him. Ron sat back and shook his head. He was trying to act casual, Harry thought, but his hand trembled until he put it behind his back.  
  
“There’s a limit to the number of times you can scare us that way, mate,” he told Old Harry playfully. “Sooner or later no one’s going to want to come to your funeral anymore, you know.” He gave Old Harry a playful shove.  
  
Old Harry smiled, but his eyes were sunken in a way they hadn’t been just a minute before. Or maybe they  _had_ been that way before and Harry hadn’t noticed because he was watching them glitter with battle.  
  
“I wish there was a way I could make this stop happening,” Old Harry whispered. He was looking at the Death Eaters on the floor.  
  
“You  _can_ ,” Hermione said, and leaned on Old Harry with a smile. “It’ll take a few years, but you can.”  
  
“I hope you’re right,” Old Harry said. He still hadn’t removed his eyes from the Death Eaters.  
  
 _I think I’m starting to understand more,_ Harry decided slowly.  _He put everything together in his head, deaths and curses and stupid incompetent Ministry flunkies and Death Eaters. He didn’t see anyone else doing anything about them, so he did._  
  
It was still hard to see, hard to bear, and Harry stepped back and said aloud, “I want to see the moment when he really chose to make some decisions he thought were wrong later. The one  _moment_.”  
  
The memories were slower to respond this time, maybe because the request was harder to answer. They danced so softly around Harry that he only noticed he wasn’t in the Burrow anymore when the ceiling disappeared from above him. But he stood in a place just as dim and dark, and when he moved, he found himself confronting shapes nearly as low as the kitchen chairs and table.  
  
And then he recognized them, and more importantly the place around them. Headstones.  
  
He was in the graveyard at Little Hangleton.  
  
Two black-cloaked figures stood some distance away, softly arguing.  
  
Harry shivered and moved towards them.


	16. Starless Night

Harry got close enough to make out the face of the figure standing closer to him. It was definitely Old Harry, and he looked almost identical to the memory Harry had just seen in the Burrow. There were drifts of leaves around the graves, though, so probably this was autumn. A few months later.  
  
“I don’t know why you wanted to meet here, Potter,” the other man muttered, scratching at the back of his neck.  
  
He hadn’t pulled his hood back, but Harry could duck in the memory and look under it. His face was heavy, with jowls that looked as if he’d borrowed them from Dudley. He had scrubby dark hair and an even scrubbier beard. He darted his gaze around as if he saw something to be scared of behind every headstone. His eyes were ancient and bloodshot.  
  
Harry had no idea who he was, but it was possible Ron could tell him, if he was one of the criminals Old Harry had been collaborating with. Harry promised himself to ask later.  
  
“Because this is a place where we can be private.” Old Harry walked a few steps nearer, and the man put up his hand.  
  
“That’s as close as you come,” he said. “Without letting me know how you found me and what you mean to do.”  
  
Old Harry laughed. Harry winced at how dry it was, and more still when it cracked in the middle, like a split lip. “I found you by following clues from people who were eager to have me owe them a favor. And I want you for exactly what I told you in the letter.”  
  
He was silent then. Harry sighed a little. He would have to go back and look at the memory of the letter, too, if he could.  
  
“You want me to create a variation on the Enthrallment Potion?” The man pushed his cloak back a little and revealed a belt heavy with potions vials, one of which was transparent and filled with a red pulsing liquid. “Already done.”  
  
 _Kelvin. I bet this is Kelvin._  
  
Old Harry nodded and said, “That’s what I want. Something without a lot of obvious odor or taste.”  
  
“This has none of either.” Kelvin twisted his head slowly to the side as if he was looking at something past Old Harry, but when Harry turned to see if this memory also included an ambush, there was nothing there. “It’ll cost you, of course.”  
  
“We’ve already discussed the cost,” said Old Harry, and looked at Kelvin with eyes that seemed paler than they should. But Harry had almost given up on knowing what they  _should_ look like. Even this memory was playing out differently than he’d expected. “You give me the Enthrallment Potion, and I give you twenty Galleons and don’t reveal the secrets I hold on you.”  
  
Harry didn’t think he had to have trained as an Auror to see the way that Kelvin’s hand tightened on his belt. “You pretend that you have discovered enough about me to make yourself a danger to me?” he whispered, and leaned forwards. “Do not tempt me, Potter. Do not  _flatter_ yourself.”  
  
“I don’t need to pretend,” said Old Harry. “Not when I know.”  
  
Yes, he looked almost as intense as he had in that memory of the Burrow when the Death Eaters had invaded. Harry shuddered a little. This was all going to go wrong in a moment. He wondered if it was conspiring with Kelvin that Old Harry regretted later, as Harry had assumed it was at first, or something else that happened here.  
  
“Better men than you have tried to discover my secrets,” Kelvin said. He looked as if he’d recovered his poise, but his eyes still traveled uneasily back and forth between Old Harry’s face and hands. “Trained Aurors, and others who are skilled in tracking Dark wizards down. You can’t really think that you’re better than they are. They have years of experience.”  
  
“Years don’t matter,” said Old Harry. “What matters is dedication. Oh, and a famous name helps, too.”  
  
Kelvin wavered. Harry thought he was going to Apparate away for a second, the way he turned and backed towards a gravestone.  
  
Old Harry didn’t move. He stood there with his creepy smile and his pale green eyes, and Harry wished he could show this memory to Ron and Hermione, although given the way Malfoy had said the potion worked, he didn’t know if that would be possible. Ron and Hermione would believe him about Old Harry going wrong if they saw  _this_.  
  
“And what makes you think that you’ve discovered enough of my secrets to be a threat to me?” Kelvin’s fingers were curled through his belt again. Harry saw him toying with a vial that had a lazy purple spiral inside it. It was probably some sort of nasty potion he could use as a weapon, and Kelvin was trying to decide if he needed it. “Give me some proof. An explanation of your method. Something I can  _believe_.”  
  
“It’s amazing how many people want to tell you things when you have a famous name,” said Old Harry. He sounded as though he was talking to himself now, and in fact he had turned around and was looking at a gravestone. Harry looked, too.  _Tom Riddle_. He glanced away and tried not to feel sick. “The kinds of things they’ll volunteer to find for you just because you gave them an autograph or spent some time with them.” Old Harry turned around, and  _this_ smile was killing. “Isn’t that right, Evelyn?”  
  
Kelvin’s face had gone green enough that Harry really thought he might faint. He didn’t sway, but he jammed his hands into his robe pockets as if he wanted to, and was making sure he didn’t. He stared at Old Harry, now, as if his eyes could scrape flesh from bone.  
  
“Isn’t that what you wanted?” Old Harry breathed in the meantime, his eyes carefully on Kelvin. “Some proof that I am who I say I am? I  _am_.”  
  
“If I use a potion on you here,” Kelvin began.  
  
“Then an owl flies tomorrow morning with all the gathered information to the Acting Minister.” Old Harry shrugged and reached out to trace the letters  _Tom Riddle_  on the gravestone with one finger. “That’s the only guarantee you have. I might be lying. But I think I’ve given you some idea of how stupid it is to underestimate me.”  
  
Kelvin’s hand twitched towards his potions belt anyway. Old Harry went on gazing at him with vague blankness, and Kelvin made a disgusted sound and snatched his hand away from the belt. “ _Fine._ What do you want of me?”  
  
“The same thing I want of the people I’m going to use the Enthrallment Potion on.” Old Harry nodded at the potion Kelvin was still holding. “You can go on doing what you do, and even turn a profit on it. I’ll pay you for the potions you brew for me. But you’re going to serve the cause of the Light, too. You’re going to help me set up a network of informants.”  
  
Kelvin seemed suddenly more interested, although Harry didn’t know how he could tell that. But he moved a step closer and said, “You’re going to use the Enthrallment Potion to get them to spy for you.”  
  
“And find out secrets not as closely guarded as yours.” Old Harry met his gaze squarely. His hand finally dropped away from Tom Riddle’s gravestone. “Yes.”  
  
Kelvin chuckled. “You think that you’re a  _Light_ wizard?”  
  
“I think the wizarding world can’t afford to sit around and wait for me to decide what I am.” Old Harry straightened his shoulders. Maybe he thought it would make him look more like a soldier. Harry didn’t know. “Now.”  
  
Kelvin spent some more time looking at Old Harry, and then he laughed and gestured with one arm. Harry thought Old Harry was going to jump in time to rescue the Enthrallment Potion, but he seemed to have decided to trust Kelvin at the last minute, since he leaned back and waited tensely.  
  
“Why the hell not,” Kelvin said, still chuckling. “Why the hell  _not_. I like you, Potter.” He stabbed one finger at Old Harry, who only looked at him with a blank expression. “Building a network of enthralled or blackmailed servants? It’s not everyone who would think of something like that, even if you’re going to do it mostly to play Robin Hood.”  
  
Harry blinked once.  _I wonder if he’s Muggleborn, the way he makes that reference._  
  
“As long as you remember that you’re the first one,” said Old Harry, with what Harry thought was real indifference, heavy and immovable as a piece of granite in the middle of a stream. “Then we can do business.”  
  
“As long as you remember to pay me,” said Kelvin, calming down enough to speak from his laughter, “then it won’t be much different from being my own master.”  
  
But his eyes were hot and narrow as he spoke. Harry couldn’t tell if Old Harry saw that dangerous expression and reckoned that Kelvin wasn’t speaking the truth. The only thing Harry knew for sure was that  _he_ did.  
  
“Good,” said Old Harry, and held out a clinking bag of what Harry assumed were Galleons. “Tell me whether this potion is exactly the same as the one I ordered from you, or whether you had to modify it a bit.”  
  
Kelvin took the bag from him and balanced it in his hand, tilting it back and forth and listening to the clink. Then he began to speak, his tone flat. He handed the potion to Old Harry and tucked the bag away in his belt in the same deft movement.  
  
But his eyes remained narrow. Harry didn’t think his desire for revenge would ever really die.  
  
And now he understood Kelvin’s notes better. He probably was trying to warn Harry that some of the people Old Harry had put under the Enthrallment Potion were waking up and getting ready to attack him. And Kelvin might be planning the same thing, now that Harry didn’t have any idea what his secrets were.  
  
A tremble of motion in front of him made Harry whip around. Was there something  _else_ that would make this memory even more disgusting and wrong? Or had Malfoy found a way to enter it alongside him?  
  
It was Malfoy’s face, but only his face, hovering in the air like a mask. He gasped out, “Only five minutes more remaining on the potion, Potter. You can’t enter the memories again. Seek out the ones you want.”  
  
 _Shit._ Harry wanted to run in circles as he watched Malfoy’s face fade. How was he supposed to know what the most important memories were? How was he supposed to choose which ones to bring out with him?  
  
But then he shook his head and straightened his shoulders. No. He was going to handle this like a mature, responsible adult. That meant he was going to command the potion, which could apparently do extraordinary things, to take him to the best ones.  
  
“I need to know what really made Old Harry the way he was,” he whispered, feeling strange for saying it aloud when the remembered argument between Old Harry and Kelvin was still going on next to him, but needing that to clear his head. “The one iconic memory out of everything. Was it just the letters? Or was it something else that made him so determined to take all the responsibility for the wizarding world on his shoulders?”  
  
The potion rippled around him. Harry tried not to clench his teeth, or scream, as it seemed to make up its nonexistent mind. Malfoy’s warning was playing in the back of his head, but he couldn’t hurry the potion.  
  
Maybe two minutes were left. Or one.  
  
Whichever it was, the potion abruptly picked Harry up and flung him through time with stunning force.  
  
*  
  
Harry landed as though someone had flung him into a wall of stone. And that seemed to be where he was. He sat back and looked around. It wasn’t a room he recognized, but it had slick walls and dampness on them as though it was a cellar or a dungeon. The Malfoy cellars?  
  
When he turned around, though, he saw Old Harry on the other side of the bars with Aurors next to him. So this must be some place in the Ministry.  
  
“Leave us,” Old Harry said to the Aurors, and they nodded and bowed and left him. He waved his wand over a section of the bars, and they opened like a door. Old Harry glided inside and shut the door behind him.  
  
Harry studied him carefully as he lit a candle on a table and held it up. He couldn’t tell exactly what time period this was supposed to take place in, of course, but he noted that Old Harry didn’t  _look_ that much older. Just pale, and apathetic, and broken by life. He didn’t even seem to have enough will to light his wand.  
  
He held the candle up and asked, “What do you have to say for yourself?”  
  
For just one second, Harry had the panicked thought that Old Harry could somehow see through time and find him. But then a whining noise started up from the corner of the cell back in the shadows, shriller and shriller even as Harry flinched from it.  _Of course. There’s a prisoner here that he came to visit._  
  
“I don’t know,” the prisoner whined, and crept closer to the bars. “I don’t know what I have to say. I just want to be let out.  _Please_.” His fingers reached out, writhing and scratching at the bars. Harry found himself backing away, his skin crawling. He had no idea who the prisoner was. Maybe he deserved what had happened to him. But Harry didn’t think anyone could deserve something that made him look like this.  
  
Old Harry moved the candle a bit more. The length of light fell across the prisoner’s face. Harry found that he could recognize it with some squinting.  
  
Fenrir Greyback.  
  
“You deserve to be here.” Old Harry’s voice was toneless, his eyes fixed on the wall above Greyback’s head. Harry found himself hoping that was the way Old Harry held back his human feelings, but he really had no idea if Old Harry was concealing true indifference or feigned indifference or  _what_. “How many children did you bite?”  
  
“I can’t remember.” That declaration wasn’t full of triumphant laughter, the way Harry had thought it would be for  _Fenrir Greyback_ , of all people. Instead, Greyback sounded incoherent, drifting. “You’ve kept me here without the sun or the moon. The transformations are destroying my mind. I don’t know!”  
  
The last was a howl, and Harry flinched. Old Harry looked directly at him. “I wasn’t the one who made the decision to keep you here,” he said.  
  
Harry nodded, a little relieved. If Greyback had been here that long, then it wouldn’t have been enough time for Old Harry to make his mind up to serve the wizarding world, or whatever he’d done. Someone else had probably imprisoned him, and then…  
  
 _And what? Why didn’t he ask for him to be moved to a more comfortable cell, at least?_  
  
“But you can make the decision to let me out. They told me.” Greyback crept a little closer and lowered his head. Harry had no idea what he was doing until his tongue flicked out and curled around Old Harry’s boot. “Please. Please. I’ll be good.”  
  
Harry flinched violently. For a second, Old Harry looked nauseated, too.  
  
Then he raised his boot and cracked Greyback in the jaw.  
  
Harry watched as he flew backwards, and glanced at Old Harry. There was more nausea in his face, but he took a long, slow breath and said, “Releasing you is impossible. It would create so much outrage…” He trailed off for a second, and then folded his arms and said, “And even  _you_ don’t remember how many children you bit. Why should I let you go?”  
  
“Because I’m dying here,” Greyback said, and he raised his head. His eyes had some trace of the yellow glow left. Harry could see how grimy the nails on his hand were as he reached out and groped at Harry’s boot. “Because I thought you had some pity left.”  
  
“I don’t,” Old Harry whispered, hunching his shoulders. “I can’t. There’s—so much to do. I can’t—”  
  
He broke off, and his throat worked for a second. Then he nodded and stepped back. “I was informed you wanted to speak to me,” he said. “I came and spoke with you. I’m going to tell the Aurors that I found nothing redeemable in you.” He shrugged a little. “I imagine it’ll be a quick transfer to Azkaban after you get your trial, at least. Then you’ll be out of this cell.”  
  
“I’ll go mad. I’ll die.”  
  
Old Harry’s eyes went distant. Then he shook his head and said, “I understand what Dumbledore means by the greater good, now. You can’t help  _everyone,_ because then you don’t get the chance to ease other people’s suffering.” He looked at Greyback. “You can’t help people who made others suffer.”  
  
He turned and walked out of the cell. Greyback built up to a long howl, and that was the sound, along with the clang of the barred door, that remained in Harry’s ears as the potion faded around him and he woke up with his hands in the stocks.  
  
“You look awful.”  
  
Malfoy’s voice was soft, almost neutral. Harry blinked and raised his head, just staring as Malfoy hastened forwards to unlock the bindings around his hands.  
  
“I feel it,” Harry whispered. He thought he understood, now. Old Harry had started out with some notion of being noble. Then he’d started doing ignoble things to keep doing “good.” Then he’d tried other things—some noble, some not, some misguided like the way he had broken up with Rob to make his friends and Ginny and people who wanted a fairy-tale ending to the Savior’s love life happy—to keep the balance.  
  
But if he really believed there was no forgiveness or redemption for people who made others suffer…  
  
What would that have done to him, once he realized what he was doing, himself?  
  
Harry was almost glad that he hadn’t seen that part of the memories.  
  
“Sit down, Potter. Put your head between your knees.”  
  
Harry didn’t feel like he was about to faint, but he was nonetheless grateful for the hands that shoved him down. He took long, blistering breaths, and shivered, and thought.  
  
He had mistakes to make up for, even more than he’d thought. Blackmail plus an enslaving potion was worse than he’d thought. And he didn’t know if there was anything he could do for Greyback, now.   
  
But he knew he would try. And he wasn’t going to give up and lie back and let the Ministry do whatever they wanted with him, either, because that would only be redemption for one mistake, or none. He had other things to do.  
  
He reached up with one hand. Malfoy caught it before even a moment could pass in which Harry had time to wonder if he was so tainted Malfoy didn’t want to touch him.  
  
 _I didn’t see that in the memories, either, why Malfoy was so eager to collect scraps of Old Harry. Or why he let him._  
  
But there had been other things more important. And Malfoy was still alive, still in possession of his memories. Harry thought that perhaps they could figure it out.  
  
Together.


	17. The Inner Experience

Harry hesitated a long time before he dipped his quill in the ink and began to write.  
  
 _Dear Ron,_  
  
 _I’ve learned a little about my past self’s connection with Kelvin, if you need that information to keep people safe. Apparently a lot of the people that Old Harry was blackmailing were under an Enthrallment Potion. They probably spied for Old Harry as well as giving him money. This was part of a plot to take on Dark wizards. He learned some of Kelvin’s secrets by bribing people with his time and attention._  
  
 _I think Kelvin was writing to me because the people who were under the Enthrallment Potion are waking up or realizing that I probably don’t know their secrets anymore. I don’t know how Old Harry was getting them the Enthrallment Potion. He might have been feeding it to them. Or maybe he wasn’t using it anymore once he knew some secrets that would let him blackmail them. I don’t know._  
  
 _I hope this is enough to help._  
  
Harry paused for a long name before he signed his name at the bottom of the letter, too. Then he called Kreacher, who popped up and gave Harry a gloomy stare.  
  
Harry ignored that. Kreacher seemed to believe that Harry’s life wasn’t worth living when Draco wasn’t around. “Find an owl to take this, please, Kreacher.”  
  
Kreacher nodded and took the parchment from Harry. Then he took a different letter from somewhere in his rags and handed it to Harry. “Kreacher was taking Master’s post,” he said in an expressionless voice.  
  
Harry stared at him. He hadn’t even known house-elves  _could_ do that. But then he remembered Dobby and the way he’d taken Harry’s letters in second year, and shook his head. He was being stupid.  
  
“All right,” he said, and looked at the letter. He didn’t recognize the handwriting, but at the bottom was Rob’s name.  
  
 _Wonderful._  
  
Harry tucked the letter away again. He would read it later. “That needs to go out right away,” he said, nodding at the parchment he’d handed Kreacher.  
  
Kreacher plodded out of the room with his head hanging. Harry shrugged. Yes, it would probably distress Kreacher to have him arrested. But he still had to send the letter to Ron and let him know what Harry knew and what he didn’t.  
  
 _Besides, Kreacher would probably feel better if he knew where I’m going next,_ Harry thought as he took out a pinch of Floo powder and cast it into the fireplace. “Malfoy Manor!” he called, and hoped he wouldn’t fall over the hearth this time as he stepped into the flames.  
  
He  _did_ think he heard a squeak of happiness behind him as he began to whirl around.  
  
*  
  
He fell over the hearth when he came out, because of course he did.  _Old Harry was probably much more graceful,_ Harry thought, as he stood up and brushed out most of the soot.  _Maybe it came with being evil._  
  
“Potter. So good of you to come.”  
  
He had Flooed straight into Malfoy’s museum, this time. Harry deliberately didn’t look at any of the floating scraps and said, “Okay. You promised me you’d answer a question in return for letting you do some more research on me.”  
  
Malfoy had been sitting in a skeletal chair near a wrought iron table, playing with what looked like a crystal ball. He froze in a hunched position in the middle of getting up. “I did say that?”  
  
“Yes. You did.”  
  
“I do not think that you would mistake  _that_ memory,” Malfoy muttered, and twisted to put the crystal ball on the table before he stood all the way up. “All right. What is it?”  
  
Harry turned to the trapped portrait. This time, he thought he could see tears gleaming in its eyes. He winced. “What—what is  _that_? What was it for?”  
  
“The results of spiritual experimentation,” Malfoy said. He might as well have added  _Idiot_ to the end of his sentence.  
  
“Right.” Harry waited.  
  
Malfoy folded his arms and said nothing. Harry finally decided that he cared more about hearing the truth than winning this stupid staring contest, so he added, “What spiritual experimentation?”  
  
“I wanted to know what was going on in his head. I told you that last time.” Malfoy pointed at the portrait’s eyes. “That has a tiny part of his essence in it, not nearly as much as would happen if it was a real portrait brought to life after someone’s death. The sliver can react to soul magic, the kind that would be fatal if I tried it on a living being.”  
  
Harry recoiled. “He was letting you make a Horcrux of him?”  
  
Malfoy’s hand twitched as if he was going to slap Harry, but he answered, “No. I can see why you would—think of it that way, but there are other kinds of soul magic than just Horcruxes. I wanted to figure him out. Some things would have been too intrusive or fatal. This way let me study him.”  
  
“I think you should let it go. Destroy the poor thing. Whatever the right word is for a portrait that’s not really alive.” Harry risked a glance at the picture, then away. It was too disturbing. “You can’t learn anything more about it now, since that was Old Harry, and he isn’t alive anymore.”  
  
“But I want to know both you and him. I won’t.”  
  
“What do I have to give you to make you let the portrait go?”  
  
“Such sentiment over a non-living object.” Malfoy smiled at him thinly. “Not even an animate one, not really. I’ve known you to be sentimental over house-elves, though. I can’t say I’m surprised.”  
  
“What, then?”  
  
“Disgusted.”   
  
Harry folded his arms. “You didn’t answer my question.”  
  
“Let me make another potion. One of the ones that I wanted to make with  _him_ , but which he never let me make.” Malfoy’s face was white with passion. “Let me take enough of your inner flesh for the prime ingredient.”  
  
“Inner flesh?” Harry imagined Malfoy trying to scrape the inner sac around his heart or something, while still keeping Harry alive.  
  
“Your muscle tissue. It was one of the things that he might have granted me ultimately, but he never did.”  
  
Harry closed his eyes a little. He knew potions with blood were Dark; what kind of potion would  _this_ be, that used those kinds of ingredients? Was he only stepping further into Darkness in an effort to get away from it?  
  
Then he cast another glance at the portrait on the wall. The trapped, suffering eyes were locked on him, although Harry supposed they had little choice as long as he stood in the “museum.” He rubbed his scar and turned to look back at Malfoy.  
  
“What kind of potion would it be? What would it be for?”  
  
Malfoy smiled and stepped towards him. Harry forced himself to stand still as Malfoy’s hand trailed along up his arm and to his shoulder. He wondered if Malfoy was thinking of digging muscle tissue out of there, and this time, he couldn’t restrain a shudder.  
  
“It would be to give me the sensation of inhabiting your body for a while,” Malfoy whispered. “Including any sensation your body has ever experienced. It would tell me how it felt when your scar burned during the war, and it would also—it would tell me so much.” Harry wondered for a second what else Malfoy had been about to say, but then Malfoy breathed into his ear and stole the thought. “I would finally understand the things that I wanted to understand and couldn’t.”  
  
He stepped back, and suddenly his hands were back at his sides again and his face was neutral. “And in return, I would let the portrait go and get rid of all these.” He gestured around at the floating scraps of blood and skin. “I wouldn’t need them anymore. I would have what I needed to tell the truth.”  
  
Harry could feel his face burning, but he  _had_ to know. “Would it tell you what it was like to have sex with Rob and Ginny?”  
  
Malfoy gave him a look that needed no translation.  
  
Harry drummed one fist into his palm. He would have wanted to ask permission, but—there was no way to do that without telling Rob and Ginny exactly what sort of potion Malfoy wanted to make.  
  
And then they would ask why he was in contact with Malfoy, and Harry would have to tell the truth, and Ron would probably arrest him.  
  
Harry turned to Malfoy. “No one is expecting me for a little while.”  _Except maybe the Ministry_. But Harry might be arrested anyway. So he was going to use his freedom for as long as he had it. “We’ll make the potion today. Tonight. Whatever immediate time-scale is feasible. And before we begin, you’ll destroy the mementoes you have and let the portrait go.”  
  
Malfoy’s eyes widened. Harry stared into them and wished he could see something other than blank brilliance at the bottom.  
  
“You’ll let me do that?” Malfoy swayed. Harry thought he looked drunk. “You—really will. This isn’t a trick. Oh,  _Merlin_.”  
  
 _And wasn’t the way he said that disturbingly sexual?_ Harry looked off to the side. “Yes. As long as you keep your side of the bargain.”  
  
Malfoy drew his wand, laughing. The laughter sounded as if he was ripping out his own muscle tissue along the way, something Harry could have lived without ever hearing. “Of course.  _Ignis excoltum!_ ”  
  
Harry ducked as fire sprayed out from Malfoy’s wand, hitting alcove after alcove and vial after vial. In seconds, they stood in the center of a harsh, glittering arc of white light, braided back on itself and folded around until Harry flinched from the enclosing heat. And he thought he could hear small shrieks as the fire burned and danced in multiple diamond-colored flames.  
  
He could certainly hear Malfoy’s laughter through the blazing of the fire.  
  
The fire arched over Harry at last, with small shadows still floating in the white stream. Harry squinted, and thought he could make out the shapes of vials, and some of the tumbling, floating scraps that had formed the skin, and even a few curved pieces of stone.  
  
Then the white fire snapped together into a blazing pinpoint, and Harry was left blinking in the purple shadows. All of the “museum pieces” that Malfoy had preserved of him were gone.  
  
“Now.” Malfoy turned towards the portrait. “As I said, this has only a shard of the soul in it. Do you want me to destroy it? Or free the portrait? It might well go somewhere else and tell someone all about what I was doing with your former self.”  
  
Harry turned on his heel to look at Malfoy. “Then why did you offer to free him at all?”  
  
“ _It_ ,” said Malfoy, but without any malice. “Because any price would be small when it comes to what I gain in return.”  
  
Harry swallowed and said, “Take off the spell that holds the portrait immobile. I need to ask him what  _he_ wants.”  
  
Malfoy laughed a little. “You don’t really know much about wizarding portraits, do you, Potter? There’s no spell. As long as you’re alive, the portrait will remain like that.” He sucked on his teeth a second. “If you want, I could of course kill you and free it completely. But I don’t think you’ve chosen that solution, based on all your hard work so far.”  
  
Harry glared at Malfoy and turned back to the portrait. “Close your eyes if you want to be free,” he said. “Leave them open if you want to be destroyed.”  
  
The portrait immediately strained his eyes as wide open as they could go. Harry had the discomforting situation that he was looking into the future rather than the past—a future where he’d spent years under a Dark wizard’s wand.  
  
“All right,” Harry said quietly. He hesitated, then decided that he could add something else. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here before. I’m sorry I came the first time and didn’t free you.”  
  
The portrait locked his gaze on Harry and didn’t move. Harry bowed his head and added, “And I’m sorry that he did this to you. I don’t know why he did, but that’s the way it is, and I hate it.”  
  
The portrait widened his eyes more.  
  
Harry nodded.  _Message received. You understand what I’m trying to do, but you want to be free, and you don’t care what I have to do to achieve that._  
  
Harry saluted the portrait and then turned to face Malfoy. “How are you going to get this muscle tissue?”  
  
*  
  
The answer to that question turned out to be agonizing.  
  
Harry knelt there with his eyes closed, his mouth shut on a scream, as Malfoy dug into his shoulder with a delicate pair of silver scissors that were enchanted to cut through flesh. And to cause pain, Harry suspected.  
  
But Malfoy had told him that he had to be conscious and silent during the procedure, and that he couldn’t take any Pain-Killing Potions until afterwards. That let Malfoy whisper his own spells to speed up the procedure and make the brewing more painless.  
  
 _For him, anyway._  
  
Harry listened to the hissing of the spell and the snip of the scissors and opened his eyes again, but this time he kept them fixed on the portrait. Whatever was happening to Harry, worse had happened to  _him_. Maybe the shard of soul affixed in the portrait was the last left of Old Harry. Or the last good part of him. Or it had been tortured by Malfoy.  
  
Either way, Harry looked into those green eyes stretched so wide with pain, and he didn’t flinch.  
  
Malfoy lifted out something dark red and dripping that Harry honestly couldn’t look at, cast another spell to stop Harry’s bleeding, and laughed softly. Then he turned around and cast the spell that ripped apart the spells on the portrait. Because of course he had dictated that he had to wait until he had the muscle tissue before he could free the portrait, despite their earlier agreement, because he had said reversing the soul magic would hurt so much that he had to be high on the adrenaline of achieving what he wanted.  
  
Harry just watched as the painted canvas rippled and Malfoy’s magic stabbed into it, ripping the portrait from top to bottom. The portrait shut his eyes just before Malfoy’s spell got there.  
  
Harry knew he wasn’t deluding himself. There was an expression of unqualified joy on the portrait’s face.  
  
Harry  _didn’t_ expect what happened next, however. A small, fleeting piece of something green and bright tore itself away from the portrait. Harry scrambled to his feet as it zoomed towards him. The first thought he had was that Malfoy had decided to kill him and had reflected the Killing Curse off some mirror hidden behind the portrait.  
  
But the green thing landed on his arm and looked like a blazing triangle there for a moment before it sank into his skin. Harry stared with wide eyes as the triangle cut apart his arm, beside the slice Malfoy had made to take the muscle tissue, and vanished inside it.  
  
Then he tossed his head back and screamed as the piece of soul reconnected itself.  
  
The tide of remorse knocked him down. He  _knew_ the pain his crimes had caused, or he could imagine it. The breathlessness that had caged people who lost loved ones due to the actions of wizards like Kelvin, people Old Harry could have stopped and hadn’t. The chains that had constrained his blackmail victims. The suffocation of deceit and disappointment Rob had felt. How his victims had suffered under the Enthrallment Potion.  
  
Harry turned his head groggily on the floor.  _Not a Horcrux, my arse,_ he thought. He was only glad that he hadn’t been so far gone as Voldemort and had managed to reabsorb the torn shard of his soul.  
  
Malfoy was brewing, from the sounds. Harry heard things churning and bubbling and burping. He closed his eyes. He was too worn out to stand up, and now and then a new pain would burst in his mind and rise to the surface.  
  
He had no idea, now that he was a little more distant from the first emotions, if all the remorse was real. But it didn’t matter. He had felt it, and he wouldn’t be the same again.  
  
*  
  
“The potion’s ready, Potter.”  
  
Harry forced his eyes open. He didn’t know how long he had lain there, he realized, and he was hungry and thirsty. He got his elbows under him and sat up, running his tongue up the inside of his cheeks.  
  
Malfoy stood in front of him with a chalky potion in a flask. Harry blinked at it. Even  _that_ looked good to drink right now.  
  
“Watch,” Malfoy whispered, and tilted the flask back.  
  
Harry didn’t know what he was supposed to watch. Malfoy swallowing, maybe. He did watch, and then Malfoy closed his eyes and stood there with his arms extended and his hands twitching.  
  
Harry didn’t know what he expected to happen. Maybe Malfoy would start telling him the story of his life, or gasping in ecstasy.  
  
In fact, what happened was a scream so piercing that Harry thought his ears would start bleeding, and then Malfoy dropped to the floor and writhed for a few seconds before passing out.  
  
Harry blinked, got his hands under him, and began the business of standing.  _I reckon it’s up to me to do something about this._


	18. The Straighter Path

Harry drifted in and out of a doze, waking only when he heard the name, “Potter.”  
  
As he sat up, he glanced around once to see if there was a house-elf within calling distance. But there wasn’t. He had managed to drag Malfoy up the stairs to the study they had met in the first time Harry came to the Manor. Then, although he knew there would be no bedrooms on the ground floor, Harry had decided to stay there. There was no way he could manage another flight when he was this exhausted.  
  
Harry turned to Malfoy. He lay on the couch, blinking at Harry out of a mask of dust. Harry had used all the magic he was capable of to protect Malfoy from the roughness of the steps. There had been nothing for Cleaning Charms.  
  
Now there was, after some rest. Harry drew his wand and murmured, “ _Scourgify_.”  
  
It made Malfoy flinch, but he didn’t say anything. He only went on staring while Harry put his wand away. It made Harry feel creepier than anything else.  
  
“What’s one of your house-elves’ names?” Harry cleared his throat and repeated the words when Malfoy only looked at him blankly. His voice was so hoarse, it was no wonder.  
  
“Ius,” said Malfoy. “Call Ius. He’s the one who escorted you to see me the first time you visited.”  
  
Harry hesitated, then shrugged. It wasn’t his business what Malfoy named his house-elves. “Ius!” he shouted.  
  
“I is here, Master Potter. You need not be shouting,” said a slightly reproachful voice from behind him, and the grey-eyed house-elf moved into view. He already held a steaming mug. “Master Malfoy is needing this for his throat?”  
  
Malfoy took the mug away from Ius and swallowed a huge gulp. Harry suspected it had to be a potion, because his pale face recovered color like it was being boiled. “Yes,” he said. He sat up and turned to Harry. “What do you need, Potter?”  
  
“The truth.”  
  
For an instant, Malfoy’s gaze swung away from him, and then he sighed. “Bring some food for us, Ius,” he said. “A light meal. Then make sure that we’re not going to be disturbed no matter what happens.”  
  
“Master Malfoy.” Ius bowed and disappeared. Harry heard a sound that might have been a lock clicking on a door, although he didn’t bother looking around to figure out if it was one of the study doors. He wanted to look at Malfoy and make sure he wouldn’t come up with some way of writhing out of this.  
  
Malfoy finished his potion and stared into the mug. Then he said, “There’s something to be praised in Gryffindor courage,” put the mug down on the table next to the couch, and faced Harry. Harry leaned forwards encouragingly.  
  
“That potion was supposed to give me the experience of being you.”  
  
“Right,” said Harry, and gestured. “Well? I know you felt the pain. Is that what made you scream?”  
  
Malfoy swallowed. He looked ill. “I didn’t know—the Cruciatus Curse. I had no idea you were under that.”  
  
Harry blinked. “Sometimes. But you were sometimes yourself. Was that what made you scream?”  
  
“No.” Malfoy huddled on the couch for a second, then turned wounded eyes on Harry. Harry didn’t move to comfort him, although part of him wanted to. Malfoy had brought this entirely on himself, wanting to drink that potion like that. Harry had only agreed to spare the portrait from suffering. It wasn’t his  _fault_.  
  
“I had no idea how much pain there was,” Malfoy whispered. “I was prepared for mental pain and the—some of the physical suffering I knew you had, like the time that that Bludger broke your arm in second year.” He closed his eyes. “But this was all those sensations, all at once, condensed into a moment.”  
  
Harry nodded, relieved that the explanation was so simple he could follow it without Malfoy needing to name several Potions ingredients. “That makes sense.”  
  
“Not—as much as I thought it would.” Malfoy locked his hands on his knees and said, “I need to stop dodging.”  
  
Since Ius brought in a tray with bread and cheese and some fruit then, though, Malfoy was able to dodge for a little longer. Harry watched him order Ius to arrange the tray on the table with the mug and then put the food in just such an order so they could reach it. Harry waited. There was a small ball of dread in his stomach.  
  
Maybe he would have been happier if Malfoy went on dodging.  
  
But then Harry shook his head. No. He wanted this to be done and over with. He wanted to understand Malfoy, and anything else Malfoy could help him understand. Then he wanted to walk out the Manor door and be  _done_ with it.  
  
When Malfoy had had a few bites of cheese and bread, he leaned back and began to talk. Harry listened without interrupting.  
  
“I thought I was prepared for the pain, so the potion would give me access to your thoughts. But instead, I got this whole tumult of pain. I knew what it was like to starve, and sleep in a cupboard, and be chased in fear for my life when I was eight years old.” Malfoy looked at Harry, then away as if the sight hurt him. “And I knew what it was like to think you were dying of basilisk poison, and be in front of the Dark Lord, and watch someone you loved die. And there was—so much in the last few years that I didn’t know you experienced. So much torment and doubt over whether you were a Dark wizard.”  
  
“Okay,” said Harry slowly. Of all the things the potion could have revealed to Malfoy, Harry hadn’t thought his childhood would be one of them. Or he hadn’t thought it would matter to Malfoy so much.  
  
“I know you now,” Malfoy whispered. He kept his head turned away. “I can’t—go on using you the way you did. I need to tell you what I know and what exactly I was keeping the portrait and the scraps of skin and blood for.”  
  
Harry leaned forwards again.  
  
“The Harry Potter I knew after the war made no sense to me. Conspiring with me and talking about torture, but then also talking like he despised himself for it. Why would he do those things if he hated them? At first I thought someone else was blackmailing him, but I didn’t see any signs of it. And I know the signs.”  
  
Harry bit his lip. Asking irrelevant questions wasn’t the point of what he was doing here, although he would have liked to know  _why_ Malfoy was so accustomed to the signs.  
  
“Then I thought that perhaps he’d always been a Dark wizard and didn’t want anyone to know about it. So I started watching him for signs of addiction to the Dark Arts.” Malfoy’s forehead wrinkled. “Sometimes he acted like he wanted to curse everyone in sight. Other times, he didn’t. And I know the signs of addiction, too.  
  
“Then I thought that perhaps he was under the effects of a curse, one that made him do Dark things even though he didn’t want to.” Malfoy turned slowly towards him. “I had to give up on that theory, too.”  
  
“I understand him a little better, now,” Harry whispered. “I think he tried to justify it to himself at first because he was making the wizarding world a better place, but then he realized that what he had done was horrible.” He hesitated and looked at Malfoy. “But I  _don’t_ know why he didn’t go to the Aurors then and there.”  
  
Malfoy laughed with soft bitterness. “You think he’d want to? It would have meant the loss of his heroic reputation and his freedom. Plus all the good that he thought he was doing. Maybe it’s a simple decision for  _you_  to give up everything you’ve dreamed of for the sake of the right thing, but it wasn’t for him.”  
  
New puzzle pieces slid into place in Harry’s head then. “So he kept trying Dark and Light things in combination to make up for what he’d done. And he tried to find the ‘good’ in the Dark things because he couldn’t stand to face up to what he’d done being wrong.”  
  
“Yes.” Malfoy exhaled the word. “Like someone taking new potions when they’ve overdosed on one, instead of stopping and letting the potions wear off.”  
  
Harry shook his head a little. He tried to imagine what it would have been like, to continually think that you were doing the wrong things and try to make up for them, and keep doing the wrong things anyway.  
  
 _Well, it might have been a problem for him. But it’s not going to be for me._  
  
Harry sighed as he thought about that. He wished he didn’t have to clean up Old Harry’s mistakes. He wished Old Harry hadn’t made those mistakes in the first place. He wished that he didn’t have to go to Azkaban, or whatever else the punishment would be, to make up for them.  
  
But he wasn’t going to fall into the same trap that Old Harry had, thinking he was shining and pure and every mistake he made could be atoned for by just blackmailing or capturing someone else. He was wiser than that.  
  
“Potter?”  
  
Malfoy’s voice was so small that Harry wondered if there was some other side-effect of the potion that Malfoy wasn’t telling him about. He glanced up. “Yes?”  
  
Malfoy had been sitting there with his forehead resting on his knees, which told Harry that he was feeling sick. But now he looked up, and his eyes were clearer than Harry thought he’d seen them since he started talking to Malfoy.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Malfoy whispered.  
  
 _That must be a side-effect of the potion, too,_ Harry decided rapidly. “You don’t need to say that, Malfoy. Really, Old Harry did a lot worse. And he’s mostly dead.”  
  
“No, I am sorry.” Malfoy shook his head so hard when Harry started to open his mouth that a second later he winced and ducked it. Harry was left staring at the nape of his neck and the expanse of his shoulders. “Let me just talk about it, Potter, and you’ll see what you mean.”  
  
Harry had to admit he probably wouldn’t be able to stop him, so he nodded. Malfoy wasn’t looking up, but he started talking anyway.  
  
“I think I still thought  _you_ were some kind of delusion, and the version of you I knew was the real one. I thought I would find out who you were with that potion. I would remember the sensations you couldn’t. I would—become you, somehow. That would be the end of my fascination, because I would know you through and through by then, and that was what I wanted.”  
  
“Was I that big a puzzle?” Harry had to ask. “I mean, you brew potions regularly. That has to mean you know some pretty intricate things. Mysteries I can’t even figure out.”  
  
“No potions are a mystery once you understand basic ingredient interactions. But you remained a mystery to me no matter what I did.”  
  
Harry would have said something else, but Malfoy was actually wringing his hands now. It seemed best to shut up and leave him to it, in case Harry upset him further.  
  
“I treated you not like a person,” Malfoy said. His hands had stopped wringing. They lay on his knees like dead things. “I treated you like an experiment, and I’m  _sorry_. It doesn’t mean much now, I know. If I was really sorry, I would never have trapped your essence in a portrait like that. But I’m sorry anyway.”  
  
He turned and peeked at Harry from beneath his fringe. Harry just reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder, unable to think of anything else. Malfoy had done strange and torturous things to him, yes, but Harry mostly couldn’t remember them. And Malfoy was the only one who had apologized to him, rather than to some shadow of Old Harry.  
  
 _The rest of them all said how sorry they were that I didn’t have my memories. Not that I was left here to cope with his mess._  
  
To be utterly fair, they hadn’t known about the mess that Old Harry had left behind until recently. But Harry wasn’t in the mood to be utterly fair right now. He didn’t want to diminish the force of Malfoy’s apology.  
  
“Thanks,” Harry finally said. “Since you don’t need to understand me anymore, you won’t make another collection of blood and skin and so on, will you?”  
  
Malfoy grimaced and shook his head. “Maybe I should have brewed this potion years ago. Maybe it would have cured my obsession.” He turned towards Harry and crossed his arms. “But there’s something I still have to do. That you still have to help me do.”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
Malfoy smiled a little. “You sound so cautious. I suppose I can’t blame you.” He sighed and looked off to the side. Harry took another handful of food, wondering if Malfoy would forget about this new thing if enough time passed.  
  
No such luck. Malfoy said, “Because I  _was_ you, in a way that I’ve never been anyone but myself before—” He grimaced and turned to meet Harry’s eyes. “I want to help you make up for these crimes that  _he_ left behind.”  
  
Harry choked on his cheese. Malfoy participated eagerly in whacking him on the back. Then he leaned back against the cushions on the couch and watched Harry.  
  
“I think it’s going to be hard enough to convince my friends that I’m sincere about wanting to make up for this,” Harry said, when the cheese had been dislodged. “I don’t know how they’ll put up with you trailing behind.”  
  
“Did I say I would trail behind?” Malfoy’s face looked pinched, so high were his eyebrows angled up. “No. I’m going to be right by your side when you’re doing this.”  
  
“Malfoy, you  _can’t_.”  
  
Malfoy abruptly lunged forwards and grabbed his hands. Harry tried to get them free, but Malfoy was strong when he was being a crazy bugger. And then Malfoy’s voice poured over Harry, and he had no choice but to listen, as unwilling as he was.  
  
“I’ve never felt anything like that. I don’t know how you could feel that much pain and still be standing. Or not be locked up in a Mind-Healer’s office somewhere screaming your head off when the memories come back.”  
  
“I just forgot a lot of it—”  
  
“I’m talking about what I felt during your childhood and the war. Which I  _know_ you remember.” Malfoy was staring at him with just two spots of color in his face, on his corpse-white cheeks. “Maybe you would be screaming if you had all your old memories back, but Old Harry wasn’t. You—I dropped myself in it. I want to know that it’s going to diminish. I want to know I’m helping atone for it somehow.”  
  
“Malfoy, that doesn’t sound like you want to help me make up for his crimes,” Harry pointed out, exasperated. “It sounds like you want to make  _me_ feel better.”  
  
“And that’s a crime?”  
  
Malfoy’s eyes were too intense, catching Harry’s even when he tried to turn away. Harry finally struck out when he was looking at him. “Of course not, but that’s not what I’m primarily trying to do here, you know.”  
  
“Maybe someone should be trying to do it, then.”  
  
Malfoy didn’t move towards him, but Harry thought he could read from the twitch in his shoulders that he would have liked to. Harry sighed a little. “Thank you. The only reason you really want to do this is because you took that potion and experienced what it was like from the inside, though, right? I mean, you wouldn’t care if it was Ron or Hermione or Ginny who had gone through something like this.”  
  
“None of them were the source of my fascination in the first place.”  
  
 _Which means “yes, you’re right,”_  Harry translated. He shook his head again, but it was hard to look away from Malfoy’s eyes. It sounded—tempting. Someone who was going to be on his side for a reason that had nothing to do with who Old Harry had been, or even because they’d been friends since they were eleven.  
  
And as long as Harry didn’t ask Malfoy to do anything illegal or immoral, then surely it would be okay. He didn’t think Malfoy would attack his friends, either. He leaned back and nodded. “All right.”  
  
Malfoy smiled at him and lay back on the couch. “Eat up,” he said. “We should probably make contact with your friends as soon as possible, so they don’t think I’ve kidnapped you. You’ve been here almost a full day.”  
  
Harry nodded, and then remembered something else and reached into his pocket. “I got this letter from Rob just before I left,” he explained to Malfoy’s stare. “Kreacher had been holding it, and I shoved it into my pocket and then came over here.”  
  
Malfoy’s stare seemed to get a bit colder at the mention of Rob. Harry shrugged. Nothing he could do about that. He had no idea what Malfoy had experienced from or about Rob while he was under the potion’s influence, and he didn’t really want to know, either. That was an aspect of his life as Old Harry that he wanted to simply leave behind.  
  
The letter was so wrinkled that Harry had to spread it like a fan before he could read Rob’s handwriting. And even then it was so vague Harry didn’t know if it was urgent or not.  
  
 _You need to contact me. I knew about one of your crimes I don’t think anyone will discover otherwise._  
  
“Do you have a quill and ink I could borrow?” Harry asked absently, turning the parchment over to write on the back.  
  
“I would prefer to wait.”  
  
“What? Why?” Harry looked up, blinking.  
  
“Because I don’t trust him.”  
  
“You don’t trust my friends, either.”  
  
“That’s different.” Malfoy was leaning back on the couch, his arms folded and a building fury on his face. Harry hesitated, but he didn’t think he could afford to alienate his one ally. He nodded and shoved Rob’s letter back into his pocket.   
  
“Fine. Then let’s think about what we’re going to do next when it comes to telling Ron and the Ministry where I was.”  
  
“Let’s.”   
  
Harry fought down the urge to smile. Malfoy was just so  _eager_ , so ready to do something with him. Harry supposed Ginny and Ron and Hermione and the kids might have been like that with his old self, but he couldn’t remember, of course.  
  
 _It is kind of nice to have someone who wants to be with_ me.


	19. Facing the Forgotten Music

“I think you should have waited before coming here.”  
  
Harry shrugged a little and stepped out of the Floo. He hadn’t been able to persuade Malfoy to stay behind, even though Malfoy had agreed that it would be easier for Ron if Harry spoke to him first alone. Then again, Malfoy didn’t care about Ron. So Harry supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised.  
  
“Are you listening to me, Potter?” Malfoy touched his elbow for a second.  
  
“Yes,” Harry said, his wand out of his pocket and his attention alert. They had only walked into the kitchen, but already he could tell something was wrong. Malfoy started to say something else, and Harry jabbed his elbow back into his shoulder. Malfoy hissed, but at least he shut up.  
  
Harry moved slowly forwards. He wondered for a second if it was possible for him to remember some of his Auror training after all, then shook his head impatiently. Of course not. He was probably remembering some of his war instincts, or something.  
  
Anyway.  _What’s actually wrong?_  
  
There were dirty dishes in the sink. Kreacher would never have left them there. Two chairs were shoved a little out from the table. Harry couldn’t be  _sure_ , but he thought they’d been sitting pushed up fully to the table when he left yesterday.  
  
And there was a change in the magic of the house. Or the presence. Or the atmosphere. Harry couldn’t define it better than that. Just that something had changed and shifted and was blowing like a fan he couldn’t hear or see.  
  
“Potter?”  
  
At least Malfoy’s voice was softer this time, Harry noted with approval. He raised one hand and pressed it down towards the floor, hoping Malfoy would get what he meant. From the way he settled a second later, crouching behind the table, he seemed to.  
  
Then Harry heard actual footsteps on the stairs. He shifted his grip on his wand. It could just be Ron and someone else from the Ministry, he reassured himself. Or Ron and Hermione. They could have been concerned about how long he’d been gone and come to see if they could find any clues in the house.  
  
On the other hand, it could also be Kelvin or someone Kelvin’s potions had helped Harry control. He licked his lips and wished he knew if there were any special defenses for the house. His paranoid older self had probably put them in, but Harry had no idea what they were or how to command them.  
  
Malfoy was still staying down nicely behind the table. Harry moved his cloak back out of the way and stepped out of the kitchen with a tight stride, ready to crouch or dodge or start casting spells if that was what he needed to do.  
  
Ron and Hermione, on the steps, stopped and stared at him with their mouths open. Harry straightened up, feeling a little silly. But then he shrugged it off. As Malfoy would probably say, Harry’s life  _was_ in danger.  
  
Hermione ran down the stairs in the next instant and grabbed him around the waist. “Thank God you’re all right, Harry,” she whispered into his hair. “Oh,  _thank_ you.” She hugged him until Harry thought he would faint from lack of air, and then stepped back and stared anxiously up into his face. “Where have you  _been_?”  
  
“Some place we couldn’t track you? I tried some tracking spells on you and nothing came up.”  
  
Harry nodded a little to Ron. He still wasn’t going to tell them about everything, given the illegal nature of some of Malfoy’s potions and most likely whatever he had done with that portrait. “I went to visit Malfoy. If anyone can come up with a potion that might restore some of my memories, it’s him.”  
  
“I thought you had some information about your past already. That’s what the letter you sent said.”  
  
Harry started to answer, but Hermione interrupted. “I think the better question is what you were doing with Malfoy in the first place, Harry.”  
  
Harry braced himself. He had known this wasn’t going to be easy, but he had never realized how tough it  _would_ be. “I know, Hermione. But that’s the kind of thing that I can’t answer fully. There are—things I need to process. Things I need to think about. Decisions my past self made that I’m still angry about.”  
  
“No matter what they are, you can share them with us, Harry. We’ll never judge you.”  
  
“Really, Granger? When Weasley here was ready to arrest him for crimes he couldn’t remember?”  
  
It was kind of impressive how Ron and Hermione spun as one unit and aimed their wands at Malfoy, Harry thought. It was the sort of coordination he had never seen from them before. Harry sighed and stepped in between his friends and Malfoy, feeling a little ridiculous for doing it, but knowing that otherwise, there probably  _would_ be curses.  
  
“I want him tried for crimes he committed,” Ron said. “He  _has_ to be. Everyone has to be.” He cast a quick glance at Harry, but he looked away again before Harry could reassure him. “That’s what you said, Harry, when we were discussing letting someone we liked off the hook. Everyone should always obey the same legal rules.”  
  
“Have you considered, Weasley, that your friend said this as  _he_ was merrily disobeying his own rules?”  
  
“Shut  _up_ , Malfoy!”  
  
“That’s enough.”  
  
Harry was astonished to realize he could sound that calm, and more astonished when Ron’s arm fell back to his side and he turned away from Malfoy to recover his temper. Hermione was the one who took up the thread of the conversation.   
  
“We didn’t know where you were, Harry,” she said. “We were worried. And not  _just_ because we want to get you arrested or—or take you to the Ministry or St. Mungo’s for any other reason. Ron said you’d received some threatening letters. We were afraid that someone might have got hold of you and taken you away.”  
  
“Someone did.”  
  
Harry made another motion at Malfoy, and this time, he shut up. Harry wanted him here, but not if he was only going to make things worse. He said calmly, “Well. I can tell you what little I’ve managed to remember. Do you want to go to the Ministry? And why would you want to take me to St. Mungo’s?”  
  
“Because there might be other potions there that could help you, if you’re willing to take risks to remember your past,” Hermione said, her voice low. “I wanted—Harry, I’ll do anything that you want. Even if it’s risky. You  _know_ that.”  
  
Harry reached out and touched her hand. “I do now.”  
  
“But we have to decide what we should be doing about his past crimes first.” Ron looked from one to the other of them as if he thought they were all going to try and break Harry out of Azkaban. “We need—”  
  
“Have you thought about asking  _Harry_ what he needs, instead of assuming that he’ll do what you ask of him?”  
  
“ _Silencio_ ,” Harry snapped, exasperated, and Malfoy narrowed his eyes at him. Harry turned away without apologizing. He would explain later. “I’ll testify as to what I remember, Ron. But I need you to promise me one thing.”  
  
Ron nodded.  
  
“You have to be willing to see Old Harry as someone who has flaws. You can’t just attribute them all to me.”  
  
“We knew that already, mate. I mean, you should have  _heard_ him about some times when someone escaped or after some of the arguments he had with Ginny.”  
  
“But that’s different from knowing he was consorting with escaped Dark potions brewers and that he was willing to enslave people with an Enthrallment Potion.”  
  
“He what?” Hermione’s voice was tiny.  
  
“Those are some of the things I remember from the past.” Harry turned towards her. “I haven’t seen much that was good about him. And if someone uses Veritaserum on me, then that’s what’s going to come out. Not all the tidbits about how he was a misunderstood hero.”  
  
“But he  _couldn’t_ have hidden all that,” Hermione whispered. “He wasn’t a good liar.”  
  
Harry thought about the way that Old Harry had hidden Rob and Kelvin and all the rest from them—not to mention mercy-killing that girl in St. Mungo’s—and grimaced. Maybe he’d done it mostly with lies of omission, though. If neither Hermione nor Ron thought Old Harry was in any kind of relationship with Rob, they would never have any reason to ask about it.  
  
“I don’t know how he did it. Not all the time. I know that he lied to you about not being a Parselmouth anymore, so—”  
  
“He  _wasn’t_!”  
  
Harry raised his eyebrows, focused on the memory of the basilisk, and hissed, “ _The way I’m not right now?”_  
  
Ron jerked a little. Hermione turned pale. Harry nodded. “And I don’t think that’s the kind of thing that would return to me because I’m mentally ten years younger,” he added. “Or because someone hit me with a curse. There are all sorts of wizards who would probably be making people try to curse them, otherwise.”  
  
Harry didn’t understand the fascination with being a Parselmouth, but it was one of the things Malfoy had discussed when they were talking about plans earlier that day. Apparently lots of people had contacted Old Harry and asked him to teach them the language.  
  
“I can’t believe any of this,” Hermione whispered. She stood with her knuckles to her lips. “I  _can’t._  That’s just not the way our Harry  _was_.”  
  
“Then we’re already having a problem,” Harry said. “I’m going to atone for the crimes because no one else will. But I want your support, instead of you sitting around saying how it must be all my fault and he was such a good person and he would never do something like that.”  
  
Malfoy moved behind him. Harry glanced at him, sighed, and took the Silencing Charm off. He knew Malfoy would support him.  
  
Malfoy seemed to have thought about the  _ways_  that would happen, though, and his mouth was firmly shut for now. Harry felt able to turn back to Ron and Hermione and say, calmly, “What is it going to be? Accepting that I don’t have my full memories and this may show you some truths you don’t like? Or leaving me here and accepting that you might not have anyone to try because there’s such a difference between me and him?”  
  
Harry was sure he knew which one Ron would choose, and therefore it hit him like a Stunner when Ron said, “I—I need to talk about this with Kingsley. To hear what he says.”  
  
Harry stood there with his mouth open. This time, Malfoy was the one to nudge him. Harry swallowed with a click and demanded, “You really  _can’t_ accept that he was different from what you remember, can you?”  
  
Ron turned his head away. Hermione said, “Harry—you don’t understand. We thought we understood him, and we knew him, and he was a wonderful person, and a hero…”  
  
 _That’ s part of the reason he did it!_  Harry wanted to scream.  _Because he couldn’t bear what would happen if he got found out when he’d been doing this for a while!_  
  
Hermione was still talking. “This is like—he died.”  
  
“Maybe you should accept that he did,” Malfoy said. For once, his voice was neutral and calm. “He isn’t the man who’s standing in front of you now. And it sounds as though those differences hurt you.”  
  
Ron looked at Malfoy with loathing and just said, “I’ll talk to Kingsley, mate. I’ll tell you what he says.”  
  
“Right,” Harry muttered through numb lips, and watched as Ron and Hermione left together. He could see Hermione leaning on Ron and hear her start to cry before they got through the Floo.  
  
Harry looked around and wandered over to sit on the couch in front of the fireplace in the drawing room. There were cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling and dust on the floor in front of him, he noted vaguely. He supposed that had something to do with Kreacher not taking care of the house as well as he should. Or Old Harry not doing it?  
  
“They’re grieving.”  
  
Harry could at least turn and listen to Malfoy, since Malfoy wasn’t talking about his friends as if they were dirt on the bottom of his shoe at the moment. He nodded.  
  
“They thought they’d accepted his loss, I think.” Malfoy didn’t sit down, but paced slowly back and forth in front of the fireplace. “They knew you would never be the same. Or they thought they knew it.”  
  
“The way I thought I knew that Old Harry was a good person.”  
  
“Mmm, it went deeper than that for them. You had shallow convictions that got challenged and changed. They must really have believed he was a hero, for years, for them to react like this.”  
  
Harry slowly nodded. “Why did they get so invested in it, I wonder? Why did  _he_? Things would have been so different if he could have admitted that what he was doing was wrong and asked for their help.”  
  
“I’m glad he didn’t.”  
  
Harry turned around, because Malfoy had come close to him, and Harry thought he would sit down for a second. Instead, he clasped Harry’s hands and bent over them. Harry blinked. Malfoy’s obsession hadn’t waned, as he had thought it had when he listened to him talk that afternoon. It had changed a little, but not more than that.  
  
“I’m glad he didn’t,” Malfoy whispered, “because then you wouldn’t have existed. You would have been able to rely on your friends for help after you lost your memory. You wouldn’t have to come to  _me_  or feel like you should hide anything.”  
  
Harry pulled his left hand free and rubbed his forehead. Malfoy’s eyes went to his scar once, then came back to Harry’s.   
  
“That’s a horrible thing to say,” Harry muttered after a moment. “You’re glad that I was an evil person and that I’m drifting away from my friends?”  
  
“I think they need time to grieve. They’ll probably come back to you after they start absorbing that he’s  _dead_ instead of just gone for a while. The same way they would pick up their lives at some point if your body had died.”  
  
“You’re a wonderful comforter, Malfoy, really.”  
  
Harry tried to pull his right hand free, but Malfoy turned so that he was pinning Harry’s wrist to the couch arms with his own wrist. Harry eyed him.   
  
“I don’t only want to comfort you,” said Malfoy. “I want you to  _understand_ me. Did you really never question this when I offered to help you before?”  
  
“Of course I bloody did! But then you told me you had an obsession with getting inside Old Harry’s head and figuring out how it worked. Are you saying it wasn’t that? That it was something else?”  
  
Harry groaned. His head was throbbing, and the last thing he wanted was to investigate some new reason Malfoy would have wanted to help him when he’d thought that whole thing was over and settled.  
  
“It’s more than that,” Malfoy said. “But I never knew it until you came back to life.”  
  
“I’m not— _you_ realize I’m not dead, right?”  
  
“The one who was alive before wasn’t the real you.  _This_ you. He was a lonely, angry man who kept making the wrong decisions and then did new things he thought were wrong to get out of that bind, instead of just  _stopping_ himself from doing them. Or confessing to his friends, with consequences that we already saw.”  
  
“I would have thought you’d approve of what Old Harry did,” Harry said, frowning at Malfoy.  
  
“I could have approved of it if he had simply let himself go with Dark magic,” said Malfoy, rolling his eyes a little. “Or given up the obsession with getting himself back to ‘goodness’ and just done the ‘evil’ things that made him comfortable and let him do his job. But he wasn’t like me—comfortable with being Dark. He wanted to be something else, and he didn’t have the strength to be, and half the time he blamed other people for corrupting him, and he whined. It was pathetic.”  
  
“Right. Okay. That still isn’t an answer about what’s supposedly different with the way you look at me.”  
  
“I didn’t know until you were here. But I find someone who has some of the qualities that  _he_ did but doesn’t whine all the time, who has the strength to solve his own problems, who looks at me as if I wasn’t a means to an end or a Dark wizard he loathes himself for spending time with…”  
  
Harry looked at Malfoy, waiting for the last words. There had to be more words coming, right? No one would leave a sentence like that and then just look at him.  
  
“Intensely attractive,” Malfoy whispered. “ _Intensely_.”  
  
Harry shuddered once. He felt as though someone had reached out and run a hand up his arm and made all the little hairs there stand on end.  
  
On the one hand, he knew he’d once been attracted to men.  
  
On the other hand, he didn’t think he was. Maybe that was something that had just belonged to Old Harry.  
  
On the first hand, he was shivering now.  
  
On the second, maybe that was only because Malfoy had been the only person to tell him something like this since he woke up. Even Ginny had just told him they were already in love and assumed that love would come back somehow, instead of telling him the reasons she was attracted to him.  
  
“I, um, we have things to do. I can’t—give in.”  
  
“I was telling you the truth,” Malfoy said, his eyes sparkling now with a  _mischief_ that Harry had never seen in them. It wasn’t malicious or designed to get someone else in trouble (at least, he thought so). “And I think the same is true about your friends. They’ll come back once they’ve got used to the idea of their friend being dead and the idea that they’ll have to establish new bonds with you instead of just waiting until your memory comes back.”  
  
“They knew that.”  
  
“They didn’t  _realize_ it.”  
  
Harry grimaced in acknowledgment and said, “But I still—Malfoy, I don’t want to go to bed with you or anything. Sorry,” he added.  
  
Malfoy didn’t pull back or look offended. “Things can change,” he said. “I’ll see if they will.”   
  
“You sound as if you mean you’ll be hanging around me until they do,” Harry muttered.  
  
“I want to see what happens,” Malfoy repeated. “Believe me, I know the point at which I’ll give up and decide that it’s not worth it to wait for something that will  _never_ happen. But that point isn’t here yet.” He smiled at Harry and abruptly pulled away from him. “If you’re not going to be arrested today, perhaps we can go through some of those letters and Pensieve memories you have and decide what we should do about them?”  
  
Harry stood up slowly. He gave another little shiver as he watched Malfoy move away in the direction of the study, and answered absently when he called.  
  
He still didn’t think he was really  _attracted_ to Malfoy. Not the same way he’d once been to Ginny, or even Rob, from what they’d said.  
  
But Malfoy was the only person who seemed to  _like_ the new Harry, the person Harry had become and was probably going to be for the rest of his life.  
  
And that at least made Harry want to see what happened, too.


	20. Shadows of the Past

“I can’t believe that you have still  _more_ papers.”  
  
Harry shrugged a little and pulled out the stack of bound letters and the Pensieve that he’d taken from the Shadow Vault. He was glad for the enchantment that would prevent him from talking about them outside that level of Gringotts. There were some things he wanted everyone to know, some things only his friends, and some things that might be better off if no one but him knew about them. “Old Harry wanted to write everything down, I suppose. Maybe someday he thought he would come out and confess his wrongdoings, and he would need evidence to support himself.”  
  
“If he had wanted to do that, then he  _would_ have. Consider how your friends reacted to an actual confession. They never wanted to give up their hero, did they?”  
  
Harry frowned a little at Malfoy over his shoulder. “I wish you wouldn’t talk that way about them.”  
  
“What, as traitors?”  
  
Harry rolled his eyes and said nothing else as he laid the letters on the main table in the library. A glance at them showed him they were addressed to people whose names he vaguely recognized from the blackmail ledger. Probably nothing intimate and important, then. He would skim through them later just to make sure.  
  
The Pensieve was what he was most interested in. He gestured at Malfoy with his head. “Are you going to come and look at this with me, or not?”  
  
“I wasn’t sure I’d be invited,” Malfoy muttered, walking up beside him.  
  
“Yes, you were. Or you would have kicked up a fuss until you were.”  
  
Malfoy gave a soft, rough chuckle, and then placed one hand on Harry’s back. It felt a little strange, and Harry squirmed. Malfoy gave no sign that he’d noticed that. “Are we going in?”  
  
“We are,” Harry said, and tried to ignore the sensation of the hand still being there as he bent down and slid his head into the Pensieve.  
  
*  
  
The memories parted around them and then opened again into a field flooded with light. Harry stared around. His first thought was a Quidditch pitch by moonlight. That was what the glow looked like, silvery as the memories themselves.  
  
But he could see walls surrounding the area, and even a roof, he thought, although all of them were far away. He seemed to be standing inside some huge silver-lit structure, almost like a Muggle arena.  
  
“Where are we?”  
  
Slightly reassured by the fact that Malfoy didn’t recognize it either, Harry shook his head briskly and stepped forwards. “I think we need to figure that out before anything we see here will make sense,” he muttered.  
  
Malfoy started to answer, but a sharp yell cut him off. Harry swung his head around and saw himself—well, Old Harry—running down the center of the field, grass swishing beneath his feet, and something winged diving after him.  
  
Harry caught his breath. He’d never seen those creatures in real life, but there had been illustrations in his Care of Magical Creatures books. Old Harry had somehow stirred up a bunch of Harpies and set them free in this place.  
  
“Potter, what…”  
  
It was Malfoy, and Harry nodded briskly and resisted the temptation to drag Malfoy out of the way. This was only a memory, and the Harpies couldn’t really hurt them. “I know. It’s incredible, what he did.”  
  
Old Harry turned around as he neared Harry and Malfoy. Harry could see that his wand was flickering in precise, strobing movements, not tracing the pattern of a spell that Harry knew. Malfoy muttered in what sounded like surprise, but he didn’t get to tell Harry what was so surprising, either, before light erupted from Old Harry’s wand.  
  
It caught the Harpies as they stooped towards him. The Harpies had wings and iron nails and twisted mouths full of fangs and talons that made those of some hippogriffs Harry had seen look weak.  
  
It didn’t matter. The light swept over them and simply, quietly, destroyed them. For an instant, Harry thought he saw flying shadows in the middle of that light, traveling on towards Old Harry. Then they were gone, too, and there was only a wisp of smoke here and there, and a smell like old grease.  
  
“I know that spell,” Malfoy whispered, while Old Harry stood there with his eyes closed and his breathing fast and tight.  
  
“What is it, then?” Harry found it hard to take his eyes away from Old Harry. Why had he come here and destroyed these Harpies? To relieve some of his emotions? To have one moment of honesty in a life so filled with lies?  
  
“The Annihilating Lumos,” said Malfoy quietly. “It’s the bigger spell that our common Lumos Charm derives from. But I haven’t heard of anyone performing it in hundreds of years. It got itself banned even from battlefields. It was too destructive, and wizards who were fighting each other didn’t want to destroy their entire race.”   
  
Harry just had time to nod before the memory changed, and they found themselves in Kingsley’s office. Old Harry was sitting in a chair with his legs bouncing off each other, his expectant gaze on the door. “Could he have learned it from anywhere?”  
  
“He must have.”   
  
Malfoy said that so dryly that Harry rolled his eyes. “Right, but I meant, are the instructions common?” He was thinking of the books that had also been in the Shadow Vault.  
  
Malfoy didn’t have time to answer before the office door opened and Kingsley came in. He carried a small round thing in one hand that he tried to turn around and hide a little, but Harry suspected he already knew what it was.  _An Order of Merlin_.  
  
“I’m happy to tell you that Auror Weasley is going to be fine,” said Kingsley, just as Old Harry opened his mouth to speak. “And that you more than deserve this.” He held out the medal.  
  
Old Harry closed his eyes. Harry wondered if he was the only one to see his jaw work, and the lines of anguish around his mouth. “I don’t deserve it.”  
  
“Yes, of course. Because it’s  _every day_ that an Auror saves half a dozen of his fellows with a combination of pure defensive spellwork and low-level charms.”  
  
Old Harry’s eyes popped open. “But they were only there in the first place because I  _led_ them there.”  
  
Kingsley reached out and flicked Old Harry’s nose gently with one finger. “You couldn’t have known what was down that tunnel, Auror Potter. You did what you thought you had to do to rescue the hostages. It was a brilliant performance, and then you saved those lives that you unwittingly endangered. No more complaining.”  
  
Old Harry looked as if he would object for a second. Then he closed his eyes and nodded. Kingsley chuckled and leaned forwards, pinning the medal on Old Harry’s robes and admiring it for a second before he leaned back.  
  
“You would ordinarily be presented with a small amount of Galleons on receiving the award,” he recited, in a way that said he knew what Old Harry’s answer was going to be. “But I don’t think you’ll want to receive them traditionally any more than you wanted a traditional award ceremony.” He gave Old Harry a grin. “What do you want done with them?”  
  
“The same as the last two,” Old Harry mumbled, staring at his hands.  
  
This time, Kingsley chucked him under the chin. “You realize that your extreme modesty sometimes makes other people look at  _me_ with suspicious eyes?” he demanded. “They think I’m mistreating you!”  
  
“He didn’t even need to keep it up after a while,” Malfoy breathed, making Harry leap. He’d honestly forgotten Malfoy was there. “They did it for him. People made up all these stories, and he just…had to fit himself into them.”  
  
Harry nodded without taking his eyes from Old Harry. He was honestly curious as to where he’d been sending the money he didn’t need.  
  
“The same as the last two,” said Old Harry. He didn’t try to respond to the bit about his modesty, Harry noticed. He lifted his head, and his smile was watery. “Deposit it into Ginny Weasley’s private Gringotts account, please.”  
  
Kingsley dropped the smile for a second. “I wish someone had loved me when I was her age like you love that young woman,” he sighed, shaking his head.  
  
“Even a romance story for the ages.” Malfoy sounded envious for a second. “He doesn’t even need to make them think he has  _that_ , not when he’s already set up all the right conditions for it.”  
  
Harry felt a hard ache in the center of his chest as he watched Old Harry. He was certain that Old Harry at least  _cared_ for Ginny. If he’d only started being with her as a sop to people who thought he should date her, and didn’t love her at all, then he would have slipped up before now.  
  
But that love was dead and gone, and Harry couldn’t remember it. What Ginny remembered were the lies. Harry wondered for a second what she would think if he showed her these memories, but he also recoiled from the thought of hurting her so badly.  
  
“I suppose, if you find me attractive, you can stop being jealous of that, though,” Harry muttered, as the memory bled into another one. “After all, no one is going to believe in it any longer after I start telling the truth.”  
  
Malfoy was silent. Harry glanced at him, and jumped when he found Malfoy looking at him with a slightly crazed expression.  
  
“No,” Malfoy whispered, hand tightening on Harry’s arm for a second. “I was jealous of his skill in manipulation. I’d like to have had that, and make people believe my lies so easily. It would have made my life easier after the war.  
  
“How can I be jealous of something that isn’t  _real_ , when if you ever do offer me what I want, it’s going to be as real as iron?”  
  
Harry stood there, unable to take his eyes away Malfoy for a second. Then he nodded jerkily and looked away.  
  
“Right,” he whispered.  
  
 _Iron’s an odd comparison to make. I suppose you can’t deny iron is real, but it’s also hard and cold._  
  
But maybe it was appropriate for Malfoy.  
  
*  
  
“It seems to me he hid all the memories that reminded him his life was a lie.”  
  
Harry sat with his hands clasped around the cup of tea that Kreacher had handed him the moment he and Malfoy came out of the library. It was—odd to have Kreacher staring at him like that, and hanging around with plates full of sweets Harry hadn’t asked for, and hinting in a croaking voice that Harry could ask him for anything else he liked. The last clear memories he had, Kreacher was just starting to warm up to him, and only thought Harry was a good master because of trickery.  
  
But just now, he needed that care. He thought back to all the memories they’d seen in the Pensieve and felt so much pain in his head that it seemed even his hair ached.   
  
Memories of dancing with Ginny, sitting with Ron and Hermione at their house and explaining earnestly to their kids how to be a good person, telling his godson Teddy Lupin stories of his “heroics,” laughingly assuring his friends that he just never seemed to get angry anymore…  
  
“It explains Ron and Hermione, anyway.”  
  
Malfoy had opened his mouth to say something else, and shut it, looking displeased. Harry thought it was at being interrupted rather than being reminded of Ron and Hermione’s existence. “What do you mean?”  
  
“Everything he did— _everything_ —went towards living up to this heroic persona he’d made up,” said Harry, and sipped from his tea. He suspected there was a Calming Draught in it, but didn’t know who he truly suspected for slipping that into his drink, Malfoy or Kreacher. “It’s no wonder they didn’t believe me when I tried to tell them it was false. They probably thought there was no way it could be false. They had to know the real him, or…”  
  
“Or it implied the existence of a level of manipulation and deception that they couldn’t credit him with. Yes, I see.”  
  
“I just wish he’d changed his mind. Told them the truth at some point. Found the strength to turn his back on the reputation he was building up with and maybe serve some time in Azkaban, if that was what the Wizengamot decided.” Harry traced a hand around the ring his cup had left on the table, in the moment before Kreacher appeared with a rag to clean it. “Maybe he would have his memory now. Maybe he would still exist. They wouldn’t have let him be an Auror, so no Dark wizard would have cursed him.”  
  
“Do you  _really_ think that he only went on with the deception because he couldn’t find the courage to come clean?”  
  
Harry frowned at Malfoy. “That’s what you implied to me. I don’t see why you’re rolling your eyes at me now.”  
  
“Not at you. At the simplicity that you still want to attribute to people’s motivations.”  
  
“Remember that mentally, I’m still about eighteen years old.”  
  
“An eighteen-year-old wouldn’t attract me.”  
  
Harry sighed. Malfoy  _still_ couldn’t take a joke. “Fine. What do you mean about me trying to be too simple?”  
  
“He was a coward.” Malfoy tapped two dismissive fingers on the table, then seemed to notice Harry looking at his hands and pulled them back, onto his lap. “But he also enjoyed the attention and the adulation he received, wouldn’t you say? He could have cultivated a reputation as a rich eccentric, or someone so private no one could get close to him, or a solid family man who retired early to look after the children he and his wife had. Why do  _you_ think he chose the path of the Auror and the hero instead?”  
  
“I hated the attention. You don’t understand. I didn’t want people to gossip about me at Hogwarts. I wanted them to go away and leave me alone.”  
  
“You hated it. Did he?”  
  
Harry scowled at his tea. He hadn’t been able to imagine any downsides to someone believing him when he tried to insist that he and Old Harry were separate people. Trust Malfoy to find one.  
  
“He was brave enough to go out and face real Dark wizards. And Harpies,” Harry added, remembering the first memory in the Pensieve.  
  
“With Dark magic that he couldn’t reveal to anyone he’d learned. Without ever publicizing his real motives.” Malfoy shook his head and clucked his tongue. “I think what made me most ashamed was when he lied to those children.”  
  
“Oh,  _shut up,_ Malfoy,” Harry muttered, but he knew what Malfoy meant. He hadn’t even thought much about Andromeda and Teddy Lupin since he recovered his memory. He had no idea what Old Harry’s relationship with them had been like, and no one around him had seemed eager to volunteer details.  
  
Now, thanks to the Pensieve, he knew a little more. And it was just as built on lies as all the others.  
  
“There’s something else we should discuss.”  
  
“Hmm? What’s that?”  
  
“Eyes on me, Potter. I don’t want you to mistake me for something else.”  
  
Harry gave a faint smile and managed to look up at Malfoy. Malfoy paused, then added, “Not that I think you will. No one else is going to give you such sensible advice. You shouldn’t show those letters or reveal the memories in that Pensieve to anyone else.”  
  
Harry clenched his hands on the edge of the table. “Then I wouldn’t have any way to atone for the crimes I committed.”  
  
“Do you think you need to end up in Azkaban for lying to people?”  
  
“You know very well  _that’s not what I meant_.”  
  
“No. But I still fail to see why going to Azkaban for Enthralling someone ten years after the fact helps anyone.”  
  
Harry grimaced and let his head fall forwards. “I’m the one who went to Ron with the news that I should be tried for these crimes, you know. You might think he or Kingsley are wrong to investigate me, but I’m the one who insisted on being investigated. So. I can’t back away now. I told them what I wanted.”  
  
“Yes, you’re very noble and all that rot,” Malfoy drawled. “Nobler than  _he_ was, yes. But just as stupid.”  
  
“So what would you suggest, then?”  
  
Harry had never realized how Malfoy’s sincere smile could transform his face, probably because he’d never seen it before. “I’d suggest actually paying attention to what people need to hear from you now,” he said. “Which is apologies. And information that could lead to Kelvin and the other criminals you consorted with getting arrested. And making it up to the people you hurt and fooled. If you were locked away in Azkaban, you wouldn’t have to do that, would you? It would be a simpler solution, but one that, incidentally, would also protect you and let you keep being a coward.”  
  
“Damn it.” Harry rubbed his head.  
  
“I hardly think that my good counsel is  _painful._ ”  
  
“No. It’s just that it sounds too much like what I want, which is to stay out of Azkaban and have a relationship with the people I lied to, if I can. I was just trying to see whether it’s possible to see it from an angle that would make it evil. I distrust—I distrust all the things I want, now.”  
  
Malfoy shoved his chair back from the table and came around it. Harry watched him apprehensively for a minute, wondering if Malfoy would leave in offense, but Malfoy clenched a hand down on his shoulder instead.  
  
“Sometimes,” he told Harry quietly, “you’re allowed to have what you want.”  
  
Harry reached up and covered Malfoy’s hand with his own. He couldn’t say anything, but Malfoy seemed to find everything he needed in Harry’s eyes, because he smiled again.   
  
It didn’t hurt, this time.


	21. Dealing with the Ministry

Ron came back with a slow, measured knocking on the front door, instead of stepping through the Floo. That told Harry, long before he went to open it, who he would probably find on the other side—that was, not Ron alone.  
  
Sure enough, a tall Auror Harry had probably known at one point was standing beside Ron. He had long dark hair tied back in a ponytail and a long black beard looped into his robes at the waist. He held a shimmering glass instrument; Harry had no idea what it was. He nodded. “Mr. Potter. Can we come in?”  
  
Malfoy had gone back home last night. He’d said he needed to rest and consider what to do next as well as gather Potions ingredients. Harry had been more than ready to agree. Malfoy had done so much for him. He deserved a holiday from Harry’s demands for a while.  
  
But as he watched the two Aurors come into the house and Ron not look at him, Harry couldn’t help wishing for him to be here.  
  
The Auror glanced around, then went straight into the kitchen and put his glass instrument down on the table. He turned to face Harry. “You know who I am and what one of these is—”  
  
“No. Those are other things I’ve forgotten.”  
  
The Auror frowned and glanced at Ron, who only shrugged. Harry had to hide a smile. Ron looked as resigned as he used to when he knew they were going to get detention and nothing they said would help it.  
  
“All right. I suppose I should have realized. My name is Auror Kenneth Morganwood. I’m an expert in difficult legal cases like this—cases where people have cast Memory Charms on themselves, where crimes have been committed under the Imperius Curse, and so on. This is a Mind-Glass. It will help me mirror your state of mind at the time you were committing the crimes.”  
  
“Does it do that even when the memories aren’t there anymore?” Harry asked, staring at the Mind-Glass. It sounded like it would be useful, but what had happened to him was also different from a Memory Charm.  
  
“Technically, someone who’s been Obliviated thinks the memories are gone, as well. The Mind-Glass can still mirror them.”  
  
Harry kept his mouth shut on his further doubts. Malfoy would probably say it was wise anyway. Following Auror Morganwood’s directions, he moved around in front of the Mind-Glass and stared down at it. It looked like a round mirror balanced between two arching glass poles. There was also a thin, straight piece of glass rising from the top of the mirror, like a unicorn’s horn. It even had a few subtle spirals around it.  
  
“Look straight into the mirror,” Auror Morganwood began, in the tones of someone who said this a lot. “Think of anything you want. The Mind-Glass needs relaxation to reach into your head, more than anything else.”  
  
“So it’s not like Legilimency?”  
  
“No. Occlumency cannot fool a Mind-Glass, any more than a Memory Charm can hide the memories that have been covered up from one.”  
  
Harry wondered about a curse that had caused brain damage, but he stared into the mirror and tried to empty his mind out. He could hear Auror Morganwood chanting soft words beside him, and kind of see him making little passes with his wand.  
  
 _I should probably concentrate on the mirror._ Harry leaned forwards and did his best to study his reflection in the glass, the face that was still unfamiliar compared to what he thought he should look like, without looking at anything else.  
  
There was a sensation for a second like he was swimming without a mask. Harry resisted the urge to spit out water. The sensation brushed through his mind a lot more gently than Snape’s Legilimency, at least. More like Dumbledore’s.  
  
Then there was a moment when Harry seemed to crash through something, like the surface of water or a pane of glass. He leaped and shook his head. Then he turned towards Auror Morganwood, wondering if he’d screwed things up.  
  
Morganwood was staring at the Mind-Glass. Harry followed his glance. There was a huge crack down the middle of the mirror, and one of the legs was splintered as though someone had picked it up and hammered it into the table.  
  
Harry winced.  _That was probably expensive_. “Um. Sorry.”  
  
“That has never happened before. Of course, I’ve never tried to treat someone with the condition that Healer Granger told me you have, where the mind and magic sacrificed something to keep you safe from a curse.”  
  
Auror Morganwood picked up the Mind-Glass and turned it around, careful of the sharp edges. Ron cleared his throat. “Can something be done to fix it?”  
  
“It’s complicated magic. One reason it works so well is because the spells woven all over it complement each other and reinforce their own working. I’ll probably have to take it back to the Unspeakables and get them to fix it.”  
  
“Damn. I can pay for it.”   
  
Malfoy would probably say he was stupid to make that offer when he didn’t know how much it would cost, but Harry meant it. He would do anything he could to make up for stupid mistakes. And his money could do more good repairing something he’d accidentally broken than paying Kelvin or sitting in his Gringotts account.  
  
Auror Morganwood relaxed. “Thank you, Mr. Potter. But I’m afraid you can’t. This can’t be bought, and from what the Unspeakables told me, the cost to repair it comes in time and magic, not Galleons. But I’ll let you know if you can do something.”  
  
“What did that mean, that it cracked? I mean, I know you said it never happened before, but can you speculate?’  
  
“I should be extremely reluctant to do so…” Morganwood seemed to see Harry’s pleading expression, and sighed. “But I would say that the Mind-Glass tried to perform its job on something that was not present to be searched. It tried to reflect something with no reflection.”  
  
“Something like memories that aren’t there?”  
  
“Possibly. But as I’ve said, this has never happened before, and so I have no way to know for certain.”  
  
Morganwood’s voice was restrained. He reached out and picked up the Mind-Glass, cradling it against him. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help,” he added, as he turned towards the door.  
  
Harry expected Ron to go with him, considering Ron had brought Morganwood along in the first place and hadn’t said anything the whole time they were there. But even though he frowned and squirmed a little and shook his head as if he had a bad taste in his mouth, he stayed.  
  
Harry waited until the door shut, then folded his arms and leaned against the wall. “Well?”  
  
“I thought Morganwood would be able to tell if you were innocent or not. He’s done wonders with people who have a Memory Charm on them and can’t remember if they did something of their own free will.”  
  
“But I don’t have a Memory Charm on me—”  
  
“I know that! I  _know_! But we’ve—I’ve—seen him do wonders. That’s why I thought he could help. That was the only reason.”  
  
“Do you want me to be guilty, Ron?”  
  
Ron’s face crumpled, and he sat down at the table and put his head in his hands. Harry sighed soundlessly, but continued standing there. He really didn’t know the answer to his question, and he wanted to know. Walking away or prodding Ron would just hurt more at the moment.  
  
“I want to understand what happened. That’s what I really want, more than anything else.”  
  
Harry nodded once. “I can respect that. But what if it turns out there aren’t any ultimate answers?”  
  
“There have to be. You said you knew a little.”  
  
“ _Just_ a little. And I haven’t been able to tell much about motivations yet. Plus, one of the memories I was able to recover had you in it, so you must have known about it. Death Eaters attacking the Burrow? It must have been soon after the war,” Harry added when Ron looked up at him with a blank face.  
  
“That wasn’t a  _crime_ , mate. We set up an ambush for them. You were just defending yourself!”  
  
“But that’s the kind of thing where I would have no idea of knowing what happened if I don’t have someone else to confirm it. And if there’s no one else, or if the memory only has actions and words and nothing about reasons, what am I going to do?”  
  
“How come we never knew that you were so bad? What made you decide to start consorting with Kelvin in the first place?”  
  
Harry hesitated. Did he want to tell Ron what he’d told Malfoy? There was only a guess, in the end, not proof. And while Malfoy had agreed with him without hesitation, that might only be because he’d suspected Old Harry wasn’t “good” for a while before the memory loss. Harry didn’t feel like arguing with Ron that Old Harry had been a hero.  
  
“What made you decide?” Ron whispered.  
  
Harry shook his head a little. “I don’t think we’ll ever know for certain,” he said. “And I still want to know whether the Ministry is going to try me formally or not.”  
  
“I don’t think we know yet. We’ve never had a case like this one. I got Morganwood involved because the only precedents I knew were cases like the ones he handles, and if he can’t help us, then what comes next?”  
  
Harry managed a wan smile. “Then if no one knows, I reckon we should just wait and see what Kingsley does.”  
  
“You could come and visit us, mate. We miss you, and it feels like you’ve done nothing but stay in this house and brood about memories. And spend time with Malfoy, probably.”  
  
Harry sharply bit the corner of his mouth and thought about it. Then he nodded. “I do miss you and Hermione. And I’d like to get to know the kids better.”  
  
Ron started a little. “They miss their Uncle Harry.”  
  
“Have you explained to them why I’m going to act strange and not remember everything they’re saying?”  
  
“They’ll get used to it. Kids are kids, and as much as I love Rose, well, she’s only five. And Hugo has no attention span at all.”  
  
“Did you and Hermione explain it to them, though?”  
  
“We didn’t know how.”  
  
Harry relented, mostly because of the expression on Ron’s face. If he’d had kids and was in Ron and Hermione’s position, he probably wouldn’t know how to, either. “All right. I’ll come for dinner.”  
  
“Good, mate. We miss you.”  
  
 _No. You miss who you think I used to be._  
  
But if he didn’t want to talk about the Ministry and the crimes he might have committed right now, he didn’t want to talk about Old Harry being dead, either. Harry found his cloak and followed Ron into the Floo.  
  
*  
  
Dinner was excruciating.  
  
Harry supposed Hugo was young enough that he didn’t really remember Harry; he might not remember anyone he didn’t see for more than a few weeks. But he still should have looked familiar, and he didn’t. And Rose kept coming up to him with books and asking him to do the voices for the characters and asking him to play chess in “the special way,” and Harry had no idea what she meant and had to look helplessly at Hermione.  
  
Hermione did try to explain what chess in “the special way” meant, but in the end, she simply sighed and knelt in front of Rose and put her hands on her shoulders and whispered, “Uncle Harry was sick for a while, all right, Rose? And that means he can’t remember some things, and he needs your understanding while he gets better.”  
  
“How did he get sick? Did he fall down?”  
  
Harry gave a small smile. That would be a lot more understandable and curable than what  _had_ happened.  
  
“Someone hurt him.” Hermione gave Harry an apologetic look over Rose’s head. Harry waved his hand. Honestly, he felt more comfortable now than he had all evening. “He’s hoping he’ll be better soon.”  
  
“I will,” said Harry, and Rose twisted around to look at him, nibbling on a strand of hair the way Harry remembered Hermione doing when she was studying Ancient Runes. “And I’d like to get to know you. Why don’t you read the book with the voices?”  
  
“I can’t read!”  
  
Harry had to hold back a snicker. Rose was giving him the kind of look she would probably give most of her classmates in a few years.  
  
“Well, I can read it to you,” said Ron, and snatched Rose off the floor and planted such a large kiss on her cheek that she wriggled and squealed. “And then Uncle Harry can listen and know how to read it next time.”  
  
Harry would have followed them and listened in willingly, but Hermione caught his eye, and looked at Ron the next second. Ron nodded his surrender and led Rose off. Hugo was already asleep on a blanket in the middle of the floor, one hand curled next to him with his thumb almost in his mouth.  
  
“What are you going to do next?”  
  
“Direct as always, Hermione.”  
  
“I don’t see the point in putting it off. You said—you said Old Harry was dead, and he is. We need to get over that.”  
  
Hermione stared at the floor. Harry kept quiet. He knew it couldn’t be easy for them, to only have seven years of friendship to fall back on instead of seventeen.  
  
If they could even see it that way. After all, Harry felt like he was a different person, so it only made sense if they did, too.  
  
“I don’t know yet,” Harry said. “I’m trying to decide what I should  _do_ about my past. I was willing to agree to a full Ministry investigation at first, but now Ron—he told you about Auror Morganwood?” Hermione nodded, and Harry sighed and shifted on their comfortable couch, glancing around the drawing room. It was full of lamps and furniture and books and photographs that he knew should bring back memories to him, and didn’t. “If they can’t actually pull my memories up, I don’t know what to do.”  
  
“What are you going to do about Ginny?”  
  
“I know you don’t want to hear this, Hermione, but I really don’t think there’s going to be any more me and Ginny.”  
  
“She loves you.”  
  
Harry almost asked Hermione to repeat that, but he knew pretty well what she’d said. “I know. But—Hermione, this sounds horrible, but I’m wondering how much  _he_ really loved  _her_. And the person she loves isn’t here anymore, even if he existed at one point.”  
  
“You don’t think you could come to care for her?”  
  
“Doesn’t she deserve more than that?”  
  
“Yes, she does.”  
  
Hermione was quiet after that, and Harry sat with her. He didn’t think he had anything to say, just like he didn’t have anything else to say about the Ministry right now. The resolution of both situations depended on other people.  
  
He knew what he  _hoped_ for: that the Ministry would decide they couldn’t try him without more direct evidence, and that Ginny would decide he wasn’t worth mooning over and move on. Ginny deserved to have someone who would love her and remember their every moment together. The Ministry deserved—well, maybe it was more about what his victims deserved.   
  
But Malfoy was right about one thing. Going and sitting in Azkaban would help nobody.  
  
Rose’s laughter soared. Harry turned and began listening to the way Ron read her the story. At least he could make new memories.  
  
*  
  
This time, Harry stepped into Grimmauld Place and knew that it wasn’t Ron and Hermione who had disturbed the harmony of the house.   
  
There was a broken dish on the floor by the sink and a handprint in what looked like grease on the wall. Harry leaned his back against the fireplace, his hand clamped on his wand. The handprint was too big to be a human’s.  
  
Then he realized it just trailed down the wall. But it still didn’t look human. It looked like a house-elf’s.  
  
“Kreacher?” Harry made the word deliberately so soft he almost didn’t hear it himself. A summons didn’t have to be loud to call a house-elf.  
  
Nothing happened for twenty heartbeats. Then a muffled struggle erupted from the drawing room.  
  
Harry sprinted towards the sound, ducking low to avoid a Stunner as he came out through the kitchen doorway. Then he rolled along the bottom of the wall, grunted as he bumped his ribs on the lowest step, and cast a Disarming Charm in the general direction of the noise. One wand came flying over to him.  
  
But two voices spoke at the same time. One was spitting curses in what Harry thought was French. The second voice was the one he’d heard in the Pensieve memory of the graveyard. “Just because you took my colleague’s wand doesn’t mean you can take mine, Mr. Potter. And we do have your house-elf. Please stand up and come out like a civilized person.”  
  
 _Maybe there are only two of them._ Better odds than Harry had expected, for a second. He stood up and said calmly, “I really did lose my memories. I can’t give you the location of any money I hid. I don’t even remember what the secrets I blackmailed you with were.”  
  
“You think I came here to retrieve them?” There was laughter now. “Mr. Potter,  _really_. We came here for another purpose. You’re smart enough to figure out what it is.”  
  
“Revenge,” Harry said, as he edged away from the staircase and further into the room. He felt as if all his muscles and flesh had turned into pure nerve.  
  
By the fireplace stood two cloaked wizards. Kreacher was wrapped up between them in what looked like a mummy’s bandages; Harry only knew it was him because he could see his ears and feet sticking out of opposite ends of the bundle. The taller wizard had blond hair that made Harry’s heart thump sickeningly for a second, but it was a straw-gold very different from Malfoy’s. He glared at the extra wand in Harry’s hand.  
  
The other wizard had a heavy beard, and heavy dark eyes, and a smile that was heavy in a different way. He held his wand against the bandages, and gestured a little. Blood began to seep from the bandages as Kreacher shrieked and thrashed.  
  
“Well met, Mr. Potter,” said Kelvin. “Oh, this  _is_ going to be fun.”


	22. On the Roll

“I think you should have a seat, Potter. That would show everyone that you’re going to cooperate and you don’t have any hostile intent towards us.”  
  
Harry thought he could see, as he slowly eased towards the couch in front of the fireplace, why Kelvin was the sort of person who brewed Enthrallment Potions to enslave people he’d never met. He enjoyed this. The other man remained motionless, other than his head swiveling to track Harry.  
  
“That’s right.” Kelvin aimed his wand at Harry and smiled. “Do you have any memories left of the secrets you learned?”  
  
“No.”  
  
Harry didn’t think he would mention the memories gleaned from Malfoy’s potion. Partial truths would do more harm than good at this point. And he didn’t have enough knowledge of Kelvin to say what would make the man believe him and what would make him kill Harry. Then there was his friend, at his side.   
  
“I think you should give my friend back his wand first,” said Kelvin, moving his own wand up and down Kreacher’s side. More blood traced the movement, forming a curlicue pattern that reminded Harry sickeningly of patterns of frost on the windows of Hogwarts.  
  
Harry kept himself from snarling in outrage. Kelvin would only laugh at him. He tossed the wand to the blond wizard, who grabbed it and moved back a step behind Kelvin. Harry eyed him for a second, and the way he stood in relation to the bookcases in the room.  
  
A small idea formed in his head, only to be dashed when Kelvin added, “And I think we should have your wand, just to be safe.”  
  
Without his wand he couldn’t do anything. Maybe Old Harry would have put defenses in the house that he could trigger just by speaking, but once again, Harry had no idea what they were. And Kreacher was the only one who could have told him.  
  
“No,” Harry said.  
  
Kelvin only smiled. The line of blood still followed his wand down Kreacher’s side. “Are you so eager to see your elf die? That would be proper of you. Of course a real wizard values his wand more than his friends. But I didn’t think  _you_ did.”  
  
Seething, Harry pulled his wand out from under his thigh and tossed it to Kelvin. Kelvin caught it and examined it curiously for a second. Catching Harry’s eye, he smiled and shook his head. “It’s strange to me that a wand which defeated so many Dark wizards doesn’t look extraordinary. But then, you’re no longer the same wizard you were, are you? Perhaps the man who sought me out and blackmailed me was the only extraordinary one in the situation.” He lowered Harry’s wand to the floor by his feet, where he could step on it easily, Harry noticed. “How disappointing, that I won’t get to see the look on  _his_ face by torturing you.”  
  
“And that doesn’t change your intentions? That you won’t get to take revenge on the man who actually hurt you?”  
  
Kelvin laughed gently. “I think my colleague is more disappointed about that than I am. But it’s still the same body I’ll watch writhe in pain and the same eyes I’ll watch widen with fear. For me, that’s enough.” He shrugged and finally took his wand away from Kreacher’s side, to Harry’s relief. “Well. Now we shall discuss what we’re going to do with you.”  
  
“You promised we could do what I wanted,” the blond man whispered. Harry shuddered. His voice had a rattling hiss to it that reminded him of the way his own voice had sounded after riding the dragon out of Gringotts, when he’d been breathing in smoke.  
  
“Yes, I did. Although  _I’m_ in charge here.”  
  
The blond wizard lowered his gaze and said nothing. Harry watched his hands go white-knuckled around his wand, and thought he was unlikely to be more merciful than Kelvin.  
  
“I suppose you’ve also forgotten the existence of any treasures in the house and the places you put them? Of course you have. You seem to have done the thing very thoroughly. My congratulations.”  
  
Harry stared at Kelvin, blinking. But Kelvin didn’t say anything else, standing there as if he was content for Harry to figure it out, and finally Harry asked, “You think I got myself cursed on purpose?”  
  
“Why not? You grew increasingly unhappy with your own power in the world of Dark wizards, during the last few years. You even tried to persuade  _me_ to turn myself over to the Aurors. I think you realized that you would never be happy the way you were—but you also didn’t want to simply kill yourself, as that would have left grieving friends behind. You always cared more about your friends than yourself.”  
  
Harry grimaced. There was another piece of the puzzle of Old Harry, then. He  _had_ done a lot of what he’d done because he thought his friends would otherwise be disappointed in him.  
  
In doing so, he’d never considered that his friends might want to know the truth about him and help him more than they’d want to be protected.  
  
“So I’m more impressed than I should be, at how you figured out that a Killing Curse would be enough to damage the memories in your brain but still leave you alive. You never asked me for the kinds of intricate Healing books that you’d need. How did you arrange it?”  
  
Harry just stared at Kelvin, and a second later, Kelvin winked and tapped a finger against his forehead. “Right. You don’t  _remember_. Do excuse me, dear Potter. It’s hard to keep that in mind myself.”  
  
“Can we get on with it?” the blond wizard asked. He had moved a little to the side, around Kelvin, but not far enough from the bookshelves to avoid falling books. Harry wondered if he would be able to windlessly Summon the books down, but he didn’t think so; he had never been able to really  _rely_  on his accidental magic.  
  
“I suppose we can. There’s not much fun to be had in taunting him if he doesn’t remember.” Kelvin sighed and aimed his wand right between Harry’s eyes. Harry clenched his hands on the couch. He would have to move in a minute, Kreacher or no Kreacher. He couldn’t help anyone if he died. “I’ll cast the Binding Spell, and then you can use whatever curses you want, Jansen. All right?”  
  
Harry flung himself to the right at once. Kelvin laughed, sounding delighted, even as Jansen cursed and his spell blew up the couch Harry had left. Harry squinted through drifting feathers and cloth to see Kelvin turn and take a very deliberate step.   
  
Harry’s holly wand broke beneath his foot.  
  
At the same moment, Kreacher began to scream. Harry couldn’t see who was torturing him, Kelvin or Jansen. He only knew that the screaming cut through him, and so did the loss of his wand, and he screamed, too, a high, hoarse shout that actually startled both Dark wizards into pausing to stare at him.  
  
Harry charged them, not knowing what he was going to do. They could stop him before he even got close. He only knew that he was going to hammer them with his fists and do as much damage to them as he could before he died.  
  
His need and his outrage churned inside him, and his magic lashed out, undirected, screaming too, trying to break the cocoon they had Kreacher wrapped in and free him, trying to find  _some_ way that he could punish Kelvin and Jansen for what they’d done—  
  
Something hit him in the palm. A wand. Probably Jansen’s wand, but Harry didn’t care. He slashed down with it.  
  
Kelvin went flying as the wordless Blasting Curse hit him, and smashed into the stairs. Jansen backed up in front of Harry, his eyes wide. He still had his wand, but Harry snarled a Shield Charm and the first curse deflected off it. Jansen turned and tried to jab his wand into the cocoon around Kreacher, but Harry barked a spell he hadn’t thought of in two years. “ _Sectumsempra!_ ”  
  
The curse hit Jansen in the arm, and then he was falling in one direction and his hand, with his wand, in another. He was screaming. Harry didn’t care. He hurried up to the cocoon and tried as delicately as he could to cut the bandages off it.  
  
Kreacher came out limp and bloodied, his eyeballs twitching and rolling under his eyelids. Harry held the wand against him and muttered, “ _Episkey_ ,” the only real healing spell he knew.  
  
He couldn’t fix everything, he knew that, but at least a few of Kreacher’s wounds visibly closed and Kreacher’s eyes stopped twitching so desperately. Harry followed that up with “ _Somnium_ ,” and Kreacher fell asleep. Harry laid him down on the floor and wrapped him in a Shield Charm before he turned around.  
  
Jansen was crawling after his fallen wrist with his severed stump trailing blood all over the floor. Kelvin was back on his feet, but bent to one side as though he’d cracked a rib when he hit the stairs. His dark eyes had fixed on Harry and were shining with hatred.  
  
“You,” he whispered, then shook himself. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes. Harry started towards him, but Kelvin had already begun to shimmer. In seconds, he dissolved into the colors of a Portkey and was gone.  
  
Harry stood there, panting, then made his way over and knelt next to Jansen, feeling reluctance in every line of his body. Did he  _have_ to do this? Would anyone really care if a Dark wizard died of blood loss after he’d been trying to kill Harry?  
  
 _I would care. And I don’t want to become the kind of person Old Harry was, even if it’s just for an enemy._  
  
Harry cast a Sealing Spell on Jansen’s wrist, probably not ideal, but at least it made a seal pop into existence over the stump and stopped the blood from flowing. Then Harry Stunned him and turned around to find the Floo powder. He would Floo St. Mungo’s first and turn Jansen over to them. Then he would find out what in the world Healers could do for Kreacher. And only  _then_ would he call the Aurors.  
  
He glanced at his holly wand, and then away. The loss twinged in him as if he had been the one, instead of Jansen, who’d lost a hand.  
  
That reminded him to glance at the wand he still held. It must be Kelvin’s, but—  
  
The cold twinge returned and filled Harry until it felt as if he was trying to swim underwater. He swallowed, reminded himself he could still breathe, and then consciously controlled his hand into reaching for the Floo powder and tossing it into the fire. His voice was under control, too. He could still croak, “St. Mungo’s!”  
  
Then he sat back and stared at the wand. He had expected not to recognize it, because of course he’d never handled Kelvin’s wand before, and he hadn’t even got a good look at the wood it was made of before the duel started. But he did know this one.  
  
 _No._  
  
It was the Elder Wand.  
  
*  
  
“ _Harry_.”  
  
Hermione’s voice was breathless. Harry hardly managed to turn around in time before she was flinging herself at him and squeezing him. Harry squeezed back, bowing his head and shuddering. He was most concerned about Kreacher; the Healers had acted like they didn’t know anything about treating house-elves, even though they’d taken him into a ward. Still, only now was it really hitting him that he could have  _died_.  
  
He’d faced that plenty of times. But he’d had the Horcrux quest to sustain him then, and the hope of living a normal life after the war. And Ginny, and the Weasleys, and—  
  
 _Too many other things to name._ Too many things lost to him now. Or maybe it was possible for his body to remember what it felt like to nearly die multiple times even if his memory didn’t hold those things anymore.  
  
“Harry? What are you thinking of?”  
  
Harry blinked a little and turned back to face Hermione. “Whether or not I can continue to live this life,” he said. “Whether Kreacher is going to be all right.” He paused and looked up and down the waiting room, but there was no one else nearby. He swallowed and took out the wand.  
  
“Kelvin broke my wand. Now I have to use  _this_.”  
  
Someone else might not have recognized it, but he could count on Hermione for that. She paled the instant she looked at the wand, and then she shut her eyes and shook her head. “You can’t really—I don’t think you’ve used it for ten years,” she whispered.  
  
But there was a wisp of doubt in her voice, and Harry knew why. She had thought she knew Harry Potter, the way he was. But he had hidden so much of himself from her. That might have included using the Elder Wand, too.  
  
“I know,” Harry said, and slid the wand back into his sleeve. Right now, anyway, it didn’t feel more powerful than any other wand he’d touched. It was quiet, as if the way he had used it earlier had satisfied it. “But I really wanted to save Kreacher. And they’d broken my wand. And that was the wand that came to me. I thought I’d stolen it from one of them at first. But—” He shook his head.  
  
“Them? Who were they?”  
  
“Kelvin. You know who he is?” Hermione nodded. “And Kelvin called the other one Jansen. I have no idea who he is or how they got into the house, except that I must have some weakness somewhere. What I  _do_ know is that I cut off Jansen’s hand, so I had to bring him here. But I contacted the Aurors, and they’ll be the first ones to know if he wakes up, so they can take him into custody.”  
  
“I think I might have heard Ron mention a Jansen once, but I can’t remember the context.” Hermione sagged back with a small sigh, as if she was exhausted. “Merlin, Harry, this is going to make things harder.”  
  
“I know.” Harry shut his eyes. “But I had to defend my life, and Kreacher’s life, and if I had it to do over again, I would still prefer—having this wand to dying.”  
  
Hermione clasped his hand once and squeezed. Then she said abruptly, “What are  _you_ doing here, Malfoy?”  
  
Harry snapped his head around. Malfoy stood in the doorframe of the waiting room, leaning against the side of it as if he was about to start sarcastically applauding. His gaze ran up and down Harry for a second before he snorted and looked away. “You seem to be doing all right, Potter.”  
  
“What are you doing here?”  
  
Harry put a hand on Hermione’s shoulder and held her still. “Hermione, will you go and ask them how Kreacher is? They won’t tell me if they can actually cure a house-elf or not.”  
  
“I  _know_ when you’re trying to get rid of me, Harry. I’m not as stupid as you assume.”  
  
“I’m not assuming.” Harry had to admit that that tactic would have worked better on the Hermione he remembered best, though. He looked at her as steadily as he could. “I do want to know how Kreacher is, and I want to talk to Malfoy in private.”  
  
“Then you could have  _asked_.”  
  
“Go away, Granger.”  
  
Malfoy’s words were edged with poison, and Harry shuddered to imagine how bad this would become if he let them continue. He held Hermione’s eyes demandingly, and she sniffed and muttered, “You still could have asked. But I’ll go and see.”  
  
Harry smiled. “Thanks, Hermione. You’re a life-saver.”  
  
Malfoy stepped aside so Hermione could get through the door, then moved in, and shut it, and stared at Harry.  
  
“I tried to Floo you, and neither you nor the house-elf answered. You might have gone somewhere, but Kreacher would never have left his house. Tell me what happened.”  
  
“You still haven’t told me how you knew to come to St. Mungo’s instead of contacting Ron and Hermione, or something.”  
  
“Please, Potter.” Malfoy had the audacity to roll his eyes. “If something happens to you, it always happens with force. I knew you’d probably be wounded, or more likely, the house-elf would. So I came here.”  
  
Harry wanted to ask how much time he’d spent searching the hospital before he found Harry, but the forbidding look on Malfoy’s face didn’t encourage that sort of joking. He sighed and sat down.  
  
“When I came home from Ron and Hermione’s today, two wizards were there. That potions-brewer, Kelvin, I told you about, and another blond one called Jansen. They’d taken Kreacher prisoner. They told me they were going to take revenge on me, and they took my wand.” Another shudder ran through Harry. He was feeling the loss of his holly wand more keenly now, as though someone had taken away his arm. “Then I realized that I would get killed if I just sat there, and I attacked them. Kelvin broke my wand.”  
  
Malfoy was by his side in an instant. Harry looked up at him and found Malfoy resting his hand on his forehead, then on Harry’s wrist. His expression had gone from wide-eyed to puzzled.  
  
“I don’t feel the disturbance in your magic that you should have.”  
  
“I—I had another wand in my hand when I attacked them.”  
  
“You conquered one of theirs?”  
  
“I wish.” For the second time that night, Harry slid his sleeve back so someone could see the Elder Wand. Part of him wondered if he was trusting Malfoy too much, but on the other hand, this was the wizard who had once, if unknowingly, owned the wand, too. Harry thought he could trust him to understand the gravity of this situation.  
  
Malfoy stared at the Deathstick without looking away. Then he nodded and looked up.  
  
“This changes things.”  
  
“I know. Merlin knows how it’s going to affect my magic.”  
  
“No. I mean—there’s something else I could help you with.”  
  
“Another potion to help me recover my memories?”  
  
Malfoy shook his head. “I told you, that can only be done once. But this is a fundamental change in your magic. I can create a potion that will show you  _how_ it’s changed, and that should include how resisting the Killing Curse affected your magic.” He paused, his eyes holding Harry’s. “And there are some beliefs that getting a new wand affects a wizard’s personality and the path they’ll take in life.”  
  
“Oh, great. As if I wasn’t in the middle of  _enough_ transition.” Harry sighed and let his head fall back against the wall. “Let me guess. You’ve never had the chance to study a wizard who’s doing that before, and you want the chance to peer at me.”  
  
“No.”  
  
Harry looked back at Malfoy. Malfoy was smiling at him.  
  
“I’m happy for you because this will help you leave the old Harry Potter further and more firmly behind.” Malfoy took his hand and squeezed. “To become a new person. One who might be able to convince even the most stubborn holdouts that he’s different from the man he used to be.”  
  
Harry said nothing, but covered Malfoy’s hand with his, and they sat there comfortably enough until Hermione came to tell him that Kreacher was expected to heal. Then Malfoy stood and left.  
  
But he didn’t apologize for his presence. And the hand he glanced along Harry’s shoulder was done right in front of Hermione, who didn’t argue, either, although she pinched her lips together hard enough to make Harry wince a little.  
  
She didn’t say anything, though. She sat down next to him, and took his hand, and held it tightly until the Aurors came to talk to him.


	23. Broken Into a New World

“Try one more time.”  
  
Kingsley’s voice was gentle. Harry swallowed and nodded, then faced the broken pieces of his holly wand, and tried to remember exactly how it had felt to repair it all those years ago, after the Battle of Hogwarts. Finally, he tried to feel his way to the power in the Elder Wand, which should be practically humming in his hand, so he could actually use it.  
  
“ _Reparo!_ ” he finally shouted when he thought he had it, and aimed the Elder Wand at the broken pieces on the desk in the middle of Kingsley’s office.  
  
Nothing happened. The Elder Wand sagged in his hand, and the gathered power poured away like water over a cascade. Harry slumped back into the wall and shook his head.  
  
“And you’re sure that someone else couldn’t have mastered this wand?” asked Kingsley for the fifth time. “Kelvin, perhaps, because he broke your old wand?”  
  
In answer, Harry turned and cast an  _Incendio_ at the fireplace. He cast it wordlessly, even though he generally preferred not to do that. The flames that roared up had a tinge of white and blue on the edges.  
  
“Right, then,” said Kingsley faintly, his eyes locked on the hearth. He turned back to Harry. “Why do you think it’s reacting this way?”  
  
Harry chuckled without humor and raked his fingers through his hair. “Something my other self did during the last ten years? Because I’m the Master of Death and the wand’s decided that its loyalty is to me? Because it realizes I don’t want to use it and so it refuses to fix my old wand?” He shook his head. “I don’t know. There’s just too many things it could be.”  
  
“Right.” Kingsley cleared his throat uneasily. “I probably don’t have to tell you this, but it would be best to keep this under wraps for right now.”  
  
“You don’t have to tell me that.”  
  
“Right,” Kingsley repeated. He turned his head and spent a moment fiddling with his papers. Harry watched him. Then Kingsley turned back and said “You’re not going to be brought up on charges for cutting off Jansen’s hand. It can be fixed. Besides, we can get good information from him, I think.”  
  
“I should  _hope_ not. When they were the ones who broke into my house and took my house-elf hostage.”  
  
Kingsley looked at the floor. “I thought I would relieve your mind. You know nothing about this situation is simple, Harry.”  
  
 _It’s not as complicated as you’re making it._ But Harry knew that he wouldn’t get anything out of snapping at Kingsley, so he nodded. “All right. Is there any way I can get an Auror to examine my defenses and figure out how Kelvin and Jansen were able to come in?”  
  
Kingsley shifted and shuffled some more papers. “I already sent someone to look. The news…I’m sorry, Harry. It’s not good.”  
  
“Just tell me.” Harry had decided that he was sick of other people keeping secrets from him, the same way he was tired of keeping them.  
  
“The defenses themselves hadn’t failed or been pierced. I did ask the Aurors to look for special exemptions that you might have built or had built into them for Kelvin and the like, but there were none of those, either.” Kingsley met his eyes for a moment and turned his head away. “The defenses were weakened from the inside. If someone practices Dark Arts enough in a building, then that magic can eat through the protections like acid, and it’s simple enough to take them down after that.”  
  
Harry sat down a little hard on the edge of the desk, next to his broken wand. Kingsley watched him and went on reciting the words. It seemed it was easier for him to speak them than it had been.  
  
“The rooms we use to show trainees curses here are shielded so that won’t happen to them. So is the Department of Mysteries. But the shielding is difficult to put in place and expensive to get, and you—I mean, the man you were—probably wouldn’t have been able to do it without alerting someone.”  
  
“And he was all about not alerting people,” Harry whispered. His head had a dull throb in the back of it.  
  
Kingsley nodded. “They did what tests they could without having the wand that probably cast those spells with them.” He eyed the holly wand, then turned away again and found some absorbing sights in his paperwork. “They were able to determine years of use, at least, and in multiple rooms. And not all the spells were the sort of curses you would cast at invaders, either.”  
  
“They wouldn’t be.” Harry sighed and shook his head. “What you’re saying is that it’s not safe for me to stay there right now.”  
  
“I’m afraid not, no.”  
  
“Okay.” Harry stood up. He wondered for a second if he should say this in front of Kingsley, but Ron would probably just tell him if Harry didn’t. “Then I’ll get a few things I need and go stay in Malfoy Manor for the duration.”  
  
“ _What_?”  
  
“I’ll get a few things I need and—”  
  
“I heard that part. I understood that part. That part makes sense.” Kingsley made a rough sweep with his hand. Harry found himself wondering if he  _meant_  to take off someone’s head; Harry had to duck under it, anyway. “But why would you want to go stay with Malfoy? I thought you’d be with Ron and Hermione.”  
  
Harry sighed. “They’re my best friends. But I still need time to get used to being around them in their house again. There’s so many memories I should have of their kids and them and jokes they had and photographs on the walls and holidays, and I just  _don’t_. Malfoy has been helping me.”  
  
“How?” Then Kingsley’s face picked up a pitying expression. “Harry, I think you have to give up hope that he’ll brew a potion that can cure your brain damage. The Healers have tried for years, and they’ve never managed it. Just because Malfoy is a Potions brewer with a good reputation doesn’t mean he can do it.”  
  
“It’s still my best chance.” Harry hesitated, then decided he had to give one part of the truth. It would shock Kingsley less later if he did. “And he’s been kind. He’s willing to treat me like a different person.”  
  
“Is he someone you—your older self—knew?”  
  
“I don’t know how well,” Harry responded honestly. Among other things, he still didn’t know if his older self had realized how obsessive Malfoy was about him and used that to manipulate Malfoy, or if he had been ignorant, or if he had lied to himself about the level of Malfoy’s attraction. “But he’s someone who can see the new me.”  
  
Kingsley gave a long, subdued sigh. “I understand, Harry. And Malfoy Manor does have all sorts of protections on it.”  
  
“It does.” Harry nodded and stood. “I appreciate it, Kingsley. Let me know if you need me to come in and testify.” He turned towards the door.  
  
“Harry.”  
  
Harry turned around again. Kingsley was sitting with one hand massaging his brow as if he’d need to go and get a headache potion in a minute. Harry gave him a tentative smile.  
  
“This is confusing. Legally, morally…” Kingsley let his voice trail off. “But I will do my best to support you. I do not think you can trust Malfoy’s motives in the same way. So, if you feel you need to leave Malfoy Manor and the thought of the Weasleys is still too much for you, my house is always open.”  
  
Harry felt a sharp ache at the moment that he had forgotten the whole of his friendship with Kingsley, or Old Harry’s friendship with Kingsley. And even then, he had to wonder how much Old Harry had been lying to his boss. “I’ll remember that. Thank you.”  
  
*  
  
Malfoy was waiting in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place, sipping a cup of tea that he must have made himself, since Kreacher was still in St. Mungo’s. That realization made Harry stop and stare blankly at him.  
  
Malfoy rose briskly to his feet. “You can’t stay here, It’s not safe.”  
  
“I know. Kingsley told me about the Dark Arts rotting the protections.” Harry shook his head a little. “What are you doing here, though?”  
  
“Making sure that you come with me and not to one of your friends’ houses that would be far less sufficiently protected against someone like Kelvin.” Malfoy stepped up behind him and ushered him into the drawing room with a hand on the small of his back. Harry averted his eyes from the blood splashed on the stairs and bookcases. “Only pack what you need. I’ll stand guard while you do.”  
  
Harry sighed. This would make it easier. “Okay.” He started up the stairs.  
  
“What?”  
  
Harry had to smile, although he didn’t turn around, because that would give the game away. “What? Everything you said makes sense. Unless you’re trying to trick me, and why would you do that?” He kept climbing.  
  
“But you’re going to agree to come to the Manor without fussing about your friends or whether you should spend time with someone who you know also used Dark Arts?”  
  
Harry turned around and hung over the banister. Malfoy was staring straight at him with such a lost expression on his face that Harry lost the impulse to smile. Yes, his old self had probably manipulated Malfoy, and even after the support Malfoy had offered him in the last fortnight, he apparently expected Harry to turn down an invitation to spend time with him.  
  
“I thought about it when I was in the Ministry. Your house is safer, and you’re the only one who I can trust who—won’t try to look at me and see the shadows of Old Harry. He lied to you, too, but you can accept that better than they can right now.”  
  
Malfoy stood up slowly. The lost expression left his face. Harry couldn’t discern what one had replaced it, though. And he didn’t think it was just the dim light that usually filled the Black house.  
  
“Of course,” said Malfoy softly a second later. He inclined his head. “Don’t bring much. Your material wants can be seen to by my house-elves.”  
  
Harry blinked, nodded, and went to fetch the Pensieve, the papers he’d found in the Shadow Vault, and a few books from the Black library that might be useful. He wondered for a second if something profound had passed between him and Malfoy. It  _felt_ like it, felt like something big had swum under the surface and ruffled it into different shapes.  
  
But there were other things he couldn’t worry about right now. He filled two trunks and shrank them. He started when the spell worked faster than before, and glared at the Elder Wand.  
  
That was another problem, and one that he might be able to address in Malfoy’s house better than by himself.  
  
*  
  
Harry turned to Malfoy the second they entered the Manor, but Malfoy shook his head authoritatively and summoned elves to take Harry’s trunks up to a room.  
  
“Not now, Potter. You haven’t eaten, have you? I won’t have you fainting from hunger in the middle of one explanation and banging your head. Then we’d have to take you _back_ to St. Mungo’s, and the whole thing is a waste of time and blood.”  
  
Harry blinked, and Malfoy took his arm and led him along a corridor done all in dark, steel-like blue to a dining room with cavorting lions on the walls and ceiling. Harry stared around. “Was some ancestor of yours a Gryffindor?”  
  
“Someone who had a lot of Gryffindor allies, rather,” said Malfoy calmly, and pulled out a chair. Harry waited for him to sit down, only for Malfoy to give him a patient look, and Harry realized  _he_ was apparently supposed to sit down instead. He did, and felt the surreal sensation of Malfoy pushing the chair back in for him.  
  
“Do you have any particular preferences for lunch?”  
  
 _Lunch?_ Harry looked up at the sunlight falling through the windows, and realized that it did look like it was afternoon. Between the Ministry and St. Mungo’s and the lack of windows in most of the rooms, he’d lost track of time. “Food like I had at Hogwarts or like Kreacher makes is good,” he said, a little helplessly.  
  
Malfoy turned and clapped his hands. There was a moment of silence, and then plates began to appear on the table. Harry gaped. There were whole wheels of cheese and giant jugs of tea and a pile of ham that seemed to have come from six pigs and porridge steaming with honey on it and bread as white as paper.  
  
“Is it acceptable?”  
  
There was that  _thing_ moving under the surface again. Harry turned back to Malfoy, hard as it was to look away from the food. “Yes, more than,” he said, and poured the tea into a cup that had appeared spontaneously in front of him. After that came a fork and spoon and two or three different knives. Harry decided to ignore the differences between the knives and started cutting up some ham with the fork and the first one that came to hand.  
  
“Good.”   
  
Malfoy prowled around the table and sat down across from Harry, picking up a piece of bread to nibble, but otherwise watching him attentively. It was creepy, again, but Harry was too hungry to care much.  
  
And by the time Harry had filled his stomach, Malfoy had relaxed, sitting sideways with his feet dangling and most of a bowl of porridge empty in front of him. He was drizzling honey over it with a lazy motion, and as Harry watched, he even raised the honey spoon and licked most of it off.  
  
“Full?” Malfoy watched Harry with a tilted head and quivering eyebrows. Harry wasn’t sure what he’d said that was so funny, or what he’d done. Knowing Malfoy, it was more likely to be something he’d done. But then Malfoy swung his legs back over the edge of the chair and reached for Harry’s hand. “We need to discuss what you’re going to do in the future.”  
  
“Well, for the next few days, stay here—”  
  
“I didn’t mean the next few days,” Malfoy interrupted. “Further in the future than that. Let’s assume for the moment that the Ministry isn’t going to try you for crimes you don’t remember and that your friends will eventually come around and accept who you are now. What else do you want to do?”  
  
Harry clenched his free hand down on the table. “You just have to ask the questions I don’t know the answers to, don’t you?”  
  
“You’re here to come up with the answers. And I’m here to offer you help.”  
  
Harry spent some time staring at the remains of his food. Then it vanished, so he couldn’t even do that. He looked back up at Malfoy, who had remained as still as the gargoyle outside Dumbledore’s office, only his eyes shining.  
  
“I don’t want to be an Auror. I don’t think I’d want to go through the training again, and not remember who my friends were, and risk the chance of being cursed with something else, maybe something worse, by another Dark wizard.”  
  
“An excellent choice,” said Malfoy immediately, in a soft, inflectionless voice. “Are there any talents that you think you could develop?”  
  
“Flying. But I don’t want to be a professional Quidditch player, either.”  
  
“You’re past the peak age when they would take you, anyway,” said Malfoy, and Harry felt a leap of indignation in his throat, before he remembered he was twenty-eight, not eighteen. “What other skills do you have?”  
  
Harry sighed and muttered, “Hunting Horcruxes. Being the ridiculous Master of Death, whatever that is.” Malfoy gave a squeeze to his fingers and another to his wrist, which at least calmed Harry down and helped him think. “I think—I’m not sure how skilled I am in Defense.”  
  
Malfoy leaned back in his seat with a slow, languid motion, and gave Harry a look as slow and disbelieving.  
  
“I’m good at countercurses,” Harry said irritably, waving his hand. “And I know something about Dark creatures because of the year we had Lupin as our professor. But I know almost nothing about formal dueling, I won’t remember all the subtleties I learned as part of Auror training, and I don’t know theory because that wasn’t the focus of our Defense classes.”  
  
“It was in the one that Professor Snape taught.”  
  
“It was?” Harry stared at Malfoy, who turned up his disbelieving look another notch. Harry hadn’t even known he could do that. “But—that can’t be right. I mean, I  _know_ what theory’s like. It’s hard and knotty and it’s something you have to spend time studying with books that weigh a stone. I understood what Snape was talking about. That wasn’t theory.”  
  
“You have such a good grasp of Defense theory that you have no idea when you’re hearing it. You swallow it like water.” Malfoy leaned forwards. “You could do worse than try to catch up on the things that you’re missing and then offer private lessons in dueling. Or tutor children who are bound for Hogwarts. Or work with the rare children whose parents choose to keep them out of Hogwarts for one reason or another. There are finally some people waking up and realizing that Hogwarts is losing its reputation as the premiere school in wizarding Europe. The procession of poor Defense teachers we had is part of the reason. Durmstrang has pulled far ahead. Beauxbatons is leaving us in the dust. I’ve heard rumors that the Ministry plans to start recruiting French wizards for fields that require Defense NEWT’s, in fact.”  
  
Harry whistled under his breath. “Would people come to me because they really want to be trained and need it, though? Or would they do it because I’m Harry Potter?”  
  
“What does that matter?”  
  
“Because I want to work with people who actually want and need to learn, not people who just want to fall all over me and worship my ‘heroism.’”  
  
“Do you still plan on paying Galleons back to some of the people you blackmailed?”  
  
Harry blinked at the random change of topic. “If I can determine that they were just unfortunate and not actually criminals.”  
  
“That’ll take a lot of your Galleons, I should think. And you might have legal expenses. And you’ll need funds to buy books to study, food, clothes…” Malfoy smirked a little. “I suggest you get over your scruples about whether you can  _serve_ the people who come to you for tutoring in Defense.”   
  
Harry tapped the fingers of his free hand on the table. (Malfoy  _still_ had hold of the other). A possible objection did occur to him. “Maybe I shouldn’t make a career out of dueling people while I still have the Elder Wand. It could be disastrous if someone conquered me and took the wand’s allegiance away.”  
  
“Let’s test whether that’s going to happen, shall we?” Malfoy rose fluidly to his feet, still keeping his grip on Harry’s wrist. Harry stood with him and tried not to get too far away. Malfoy was already pivoting to walk out the door of the dining room.  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“Duel me. If I win the Elder Wand from you, I promise to give it back.”  
  
Harry ignored the teasing smile Malfoy shot him. He actually did believe that. “But what if you hurt me?”  
  
Malfoy spun and pinned him for a moment to the wall of the Manor, and Harry’s breath caught thickly at the expression on Malfoy’s face. His eyes burned as if he was charging into battle.  
  
“I don’t think I can,” Malfoy whispered. “But I want to  _learn_ if it’s possible. And I want to see what you can do to me.”  
  
“You need help, Malfoy, you know that?”  
  
“Look at how hard you’re breathing, Harry,” Malfoy murmured, easing closer to him and laughing softly under his breath. “And tell me I’m the only one.”  
  
Harry didn’t need much time to consider, honestly. He reached out and caught hold of Malfoy’s wrist in turn, and Malfoy shot his eyes back and forth from Harry’s hand to Harry’s eyes, dizzyingly fast and bright.  
  
“Let’s duel, then.”


	24. Burning, Blinding

“Welcome to the Malfoy Manor dueling room.”  
  
Harry resisted the urge to smile as he turned his head from side to side. Yes, this was a dueling room, all right, he supposed. Not that he had ever seen one, but one of the ancient Malfoys had probably taken everyone’s fantasy of a dueling room and then added two hundred ostentatious flourishes.  
  
It was made of marble, for one thing. Harry could imagine how stunning blood would look on that white stone, which was presumably part of the point. In the exact center was a ring of black stone, set into the marble in such a way that Harry couldn’t feel a break. He bent down and brushed his fingers over the edge of the ring. It felt silky and glassy, like obsidian.  
  
“Is this made of obsidian?” he asked Malfoy.  
  
“How should I know? I didn’t make it.” Malfoy seemed to miss Harry’s eyeroll as he walked across the dueling circle and stood on the other side. When he drew his wand, his face was full of emotion like subdued fire.  
  
“Do you see the designs on the walls?” Although Harry didn’t know if he should take his eyes off Malfoy so near the start of a duel, he obediently turned his head. He _could_ see the designs when he squinted. They looked like gold and silver shields traced in faint light on each of the eight panels that made up the octagonal room.  
  
“Those help contain spells and dissipate them harmlessly if they pass outside the dueling circle, so we don’t have to worry about them bouncing and hitting us in the back.” Malfoy’s voice was a low, passionate sound as he paced back and forth in front of Harry. “And if either of  _us_ stumbles out of the dueling circle, we lose.”  
  
“There’s nothing to keep us in it, is there? No sort of barrier or shield?”  
  
“No. You simply have to  _watch your step_.”  
  
Malfoy was grinning like a tiger. Harry nodded once and said, “All right. How formal is this? Are we going to bow?”  
  
“We can if you like. It’s an acknowledgment of the power your opponent has, a good way to demonstrate respect that might not be clear otherwise.”  
  
Malfoy sounded so indifferent that Harry almost expected an attack as he bent at the waist. But even if Malfoy didn’t like the formal customs of dueling, he performed them gracefully, making it seem as if the bow and the straightening up was all part of one flowing motion.  
  
“Do you have any other questions?” Malfoy was looking at Harry, or at the Elder Wand as he drew it. Harry couldn’t tell which one. He shook his head and half-braced himself.  
  
“Good, then,” Malfoy said, and abruptly exploded in a run towards Harry. Harry nearly leaped backwards before he remembered that he couldn’t go out of the dueling circle.  
  
But he’d fought people in confined circumstances before. Harry crouched instead and snapped, “ _Impedimenta!_ ”  
  
Malfoy leaped over the hex and kept running. Harry turned a little to the side and this time used a Stunner. Malfoy  _spun_ past that one and ended up with his wand trained on Harry’s heart, which had probably been his goal from the beginning.  
  
“ _Cordis Arcus!_ ”  
  
A brilliant splash of rainbow light exploded into being on Harry’s chest, right over his heart, spraying light into his eyes. Harry slammed them shut and rolled instinctively away from both Malfoy and the edge of the circle, further into the center of the dueling ring. The spell still shimmered hard on the other side of his eyelids, waiting to blind him if he looked.  
  
But it did nothing to interfere with his hearing. Harry could hear Malfoy running towards him, his footsteps fast and excited. Harry planted one hand on the floor and waited until Malfoy had got near enough that it would be hard for him to reverse his charge.  
  
Then Harry aimed his wand at the floor and thought as hard as he could,  _Conglacio_.  
  
The next sound he heard was a sharp gasp and then a thump. The floor had turned to ice, and Malfoy had slipped on it. Harry grinned and crab-walked on his hands for a second, as he got ready to stand. The Ice Transfiguration spell only worked forwards from wherever his hands were touching, usually in a half-circle.  
  
But Malfoy had another trick ready. “ _Praestigiae Ignis!_ ”  
  
Harry heard the roar of fire a second later. He snapped open his eyes, but had to close them again. Walls of flame surrounded him from every direction, still less brilliant than the stupid beaming spell on his chest.  
  
Harry turned his wand on himself. “ _Finite Incantatem_.” He had to be able to see before he could do anything else.  
  
Meanwhile, his mind was working feverishly on the memory of the spell Malfoy had used. He  _knew_ he’d heard that incantation before. Never actually cast it, but he knew he’d heard it, knew there was some counter…  
  
As if summoned from the past, which wasn’t so distant to him, he heard Snape’s bored voice drawling in his head. “ _..or the Fire Illusion, a variation on the Boggart Illusion that calls up the image of your greatest fear, whose incantation is_ Praestigiae Ignis…”  
  
 _This is just an illusion. It’s my own belief that’s giving it its power, and I can overcome it if I can just make myself walk into it._  
  
Harry stood up and whirled around to face what he knew was the back of the dueling circle. He did feel a faint flicker of fear and doubt that he might have got the direction wrong and any second now he was going to burn to death or slam into Malfoy and lose the duel, but he pushed it aside. He was good at directions. He always knew where he was in Quidditch, no matter how many times the broom spun.  
  
He walked straight through the illusion, despite the sparking of heat against his skin and the sensation of small hairs on his arms singeing.  
  
It was horrifying for several moments. Then it was over. And Harry found himself turning around in the middle of clear air, on uniced ground, and casting another spell that he had used on a few Death Eaters. “ _Flagello Tergum!_ ”  
  
The spell uncoiled from his wand in a hissing, dancing whip of sparks. Harry had to squint as he watched them disappearing into the illusion. He wondered for a second if illusion magic could protect Malfoy from the spell he’d aimed.  
  
A scream of anguish a second later said that no, it couldn’t. Grinning, Harry took a running start and leaped back through the illusion.  
  
He found Malfoy rolling on the floor, trying to disenchant the spell that floated above him and was whipping his back bloody. Since it was invisible, not a trail of light or anything like that, it was difficult. Malfoy still aimed his wand and spat angry curses, though, only to interrupt them when he screamed again.  
  
Harry made sure he didn’t slip on the ice as he came up beside Malfoy and smiled down at him. “Ready to yield?”  
  
A second later, he supposed he shouldn’t have said that. He could have cast the Disarming Charm and taken Malfoy’s wand easily enough from him right then. But his _words_ made Malfoy open his eyes with a crazed expression, stick his elbows underneath him, and spring to his feet.   
  
He moved so lightly that he didn’t even seem to care about the ice this time. He looked Harry right in the eye and spat, “ _Caeco!_ ”  
  
Harry didn’t recognize the incantation, but that didn’t matter, not when twin black arrows materialized from the end of Malfoy’s wand and aimed at his eyes. Harry wasn’t going to let arrows anywhere near his eyes. He rolled on the floor in response, but the arrows kept up, diving at him relentlessly. Harry raised a Shield Charm that broke one of them, but the left one was still coming.  
  
Harry lashed out with a defensive burst of pure magic, not thinking about what the consequences might be.  
  
The magic came out as a flying cascade of white sparks, one that hit the left arrow and broke it. Then it hit the ice on the other side of the dueling circle and broke it, crazing it and melting it.  
  
Then it hit Malfoy.  
  
Harry stared as he went flying. He didn’t fly over the outer side of the dueling circle, instead bouncing back as if he’d hit an invisible barrier after all, despite his claims that there was no such thing, and rolling limply towards the center. Harry went running towards him.  
  
Malfoy was breathing, Harry could see that much even from a distance, but he didn’t move as Harry bent over him. Then Harry heard a croaking mutter escape from his mouth as he aimed his wand at Harry’s feet.  
  
“ _Locomotor Mortis_.”  
  
Harry leaped the Leg-Locker Curse, but he came down with a grudging respect for Malfoy. Harry knew his head had to be ringing. Harry didn’t know if he could have summoned up the breath or the will to muster a spell after a hit like that.  
  
“Damn you anyway, Potter,” Malfoy said dazedly as he raised his head and shook it. “Why can no one guard against you half the time?”  
  
“ _Expelliarmus!_ ”   
  
Malfoy’s eyes glittered as he pinned his wand beneath him, negating the spell, and then fought his way to his knees. “Finally remembered that we’re supposed to be in a duel and not some kind of mutual admiration contest?”  
  
Harry didn’t bother responding to that with words. In his opinion, Malfoy was the one who sometimes forgot they were in the middle of a duel, although  _he_ acted like it was a battle to the death instead. Instead, Harry came up with another nonverbal spell like the one he’d used to turn the floor to ice, and concentrated on it as hard as he could. _Ango medullam!_  
  
Malfoy gasped as he bent over. Harry knew his arms would be aching; the particular curse Harry had used was called the Marrow Torment, spreading pain from the bone marrow outwards, and he’d hit Malfoy’s arms instead of his whole body because he didn’t think his wordless magic would be powerful enough to cover all of Malfoy.  
  
Harry had his shield up, ready to move the instant Malfoy dropped his wand or used it to end the spell, but Malfoy didn’t do either. He raised his wand despite the sheer pain that must have been cutting him to pieces and croaked, “ _Corvus_.”  
  
The giant raven that flew out of his wand gave Harry more problems than he’d anticipated. For one thing, it flew straight at his head, and Harry had to duck. In the meantime, he could hear Malfoy ending the Marrow Torment and probably doing something else that would make him more of a problem for Harry in just a minute.  
  
For another, what Malfoy had done was a kind of summoning, and Harry couldn’t simply cast  _Finite_ at the bird and solve the problem that way. It needed a specific Banishing Charm. Harry tried to remember what the one for ravens was while ducking.  
  
He didn’t duck far enough. A sharp beak hammered into his scar and made him gasp. Then he was down on his knees while the raven perched on his shoulder and rained blows down on his skull, grabbing Harry’s shoulders in its surprisingly powerful feet while it did.  
  
Finally, the incantation came back to Harry. “ _Corvum ablegatio!_ ”  
  
The strikes ended so suddenly that it made Harry feel as if he had phantom pain in the top of his head and shoulders, as if  _they_ were the places his lightning scar had been. Harry was still gingerly raising a hand to feel his skull when Malfoy barked, “ _Daphnis!_ ”  
  
In an instant, Harry didn’t have a hand anymore. He had a set of twigs covered with budding leaves. He stared down and found that his feet were sliding into the floor, rooting there. Already his toes were long and wriggling, diving into the ground as they looked for water.  
  
Harry snatched his wand, but his voice was blurred when he tried to speak. Bark was covering his face. He saw Malfoy watching him smugly.  
  
 _No. I will this not to happen._  
  
The back of his mind stirred, and there was a spell there. Harry didn’t know where it came from. It was simply there, and he knew enough not to question it. He knew that it was the only spell that could save him now.  
  
 _Ignis intra!_  His thoughts were the only way he could produce magic at the moment.  
  
The fire burst out of Harry, burning him. He shrieked, but at least it was in a human voice, and he could feel the bark melting away from him as if it was a coating of chocolate gone liquid. Harry kicked, and his feet had toes again and moved to his command. His hands stung, but they were hands and not twigs.  
  
Malfoy fell back a step before Harry. His eyes were wide and glazed, and he stared at Harry as if he had never seen anything scarier in his life.  
  
Harry grinned. It was about to get scarier, he thought. Because after Malfoy had used that spell, Harry wasn’t content to simply use a Disarming Charm and call it even.  
  
“ _Comminuo_ ,” Harry breathed, and the spell writhed out of his wand and dived down on Malfoy like an eagle.  
  
Strangely, Malfoy didn’t even make an attempt to avoid it. He stood there and stared, and when the spell landed on his shoulder and delved into him, he only turned his head a little, dreamily. Harry wondered whether he had hit his head on something when Harry wasn’t able to see through the bark, or if he was suffering from magical exhaustion.  
  
His expression changed in a second, though, and Harry knew what he was hearing. There would be a voice whispering to him, in the back of his head, loud and persistent and sounding like the voice of someone he trusted. Probably someone dead, to make the impact all the harsher. Maybe even Snape.  
  
Harry knew the sorts of things it would be saying, too.  
  
 _You’re worthless. Why would anyone bother trying to save you? Why would anyone want to be with you? What makes you worth more than the ground you tread in? Why don’t you crumble to dust and die?_  
  
Malfoy fell to his knees a second later, hands clutching his temples. His hand dropped his wand limply, and it rolled across the floor towards Harry. Harry strolled towards it and picked it up, spinning it between his fingers.  
  
He was aware of the desire to let the spell continue, so that Malfoy might suffer at least some of the panic that Harry had when he almost turned into a bloody  _tree_. But that was cruel, and Harry refused to be Old Harry.  
  
“ _Finite Incantatem_ ,” he said loudly, although he had to direct rather a lot of power into the spell to break the Diminishment Curse he’d already cast on Malfoy.  
  
Malfoy uncurled slowly from his fetal posture when Harry let the spell go. He lay there, panting and staring up at Harry in silence.  
  
Harry knelt down next to him and smiled at him. He thought the expression was dangerous, but Malfoy didn’t flinch from it.  
  
“If you  _ever_ try to turn me into a  _tree_ again,” Harry said, slowly and calmly, “what I just did will be nothing compared to what happens to you.”  
  
Malfoy lifted a shaking hand. Harry had no idea what he was doing until Malfoy locked his hand around the nape of Harry’s neck and tugged him down. Harry went with it, utterly astonished and already trying to decide if Malfoy thought he could win the duel by head-butting Harry or something.  
  
Then he realized it was something else. Because Malfoy’s mouth had locked on his and was sucking at him greedily, desperately.  
  
Harry suddenly saw the dazed, blank look in Malfoy’s eyes again, saw it in a new light. He hadn’t been afraid. He’d been standing there in worship, in awe.  
  
In lust.  
  
Harry brought a shaking hand forwards and stroked Malfoy’s hair, his neck. The contact made Malfoy groan and writhe, and at the same time, Harry felt as if he was the one being lit on fire, through his fingertips.  
  
He was hard so fast he felt dizzy. And he was—he was being kissed in a way that wasn’t wet, that just  _wanted_.  
  
His vision clouded over, and with it, his mind. He wanted, and he wanted, and he  _wanted_. Maybe he hadn’t before.  
  
But he did now.  
  
Harry slid his arm behind Malfoy’s head and kissed back, tugging impatiently at Malfoy’s shirt in the meantime. His body buzzed with magic and the wild rush of knowing someone just wanted him instead of wanting him  _back_.  
  
He was more than his lost memories and possible crimes to Malfoy. He was his magic and his body and his contrast with Old Harry.  
  
And right now, that was all Harry wanted to be.


	25. Swing the Pendulum

Harry was  _hot_.  
  
He was sweating so much just rolling on the floor with Malfoy, and okay, also maybe from the duel, and he kept reaching up to tear at the collar of his shirt.  
  
He would have taken it off already, but Malfoy wouldn’t stop kissing him.  
  
Harry’s head spun. Probably lack of air. Malfoy’s mouth hadn’t left his  _yet_ , and his fingers were kneading into Harry’s shoulders, and he was sucking Harry’s lips, and he darted his tongue out and—  
  
Harry had to meet it, because he refused to allow Malfoy the satisfaction of  _this_  beginning.  
  
It made him leap inside his skin, just the sensation of touching tongues together like that. He’d done that before? How could he have  _forgotten_?  
  
He tried to claw the shirt off Malfoy’s shoulders in response, and Malfoy leaned on his knees above him, faltering as he tried to strike at Harry’s clothes with fingers crooked like claws. At least his face was red, too, and he was panting with such intensity that Harry couldn’t hear a moment when one pant ended and the next began.  
  
“Why are clothes so  _difficult_?” Malfoy hissed.  
  
Harry smiled at him and leaned up to kiss him again. It was brilliant, and it let him roll Malfoy back under him, and that was really better. And because Malfoy still wouldn’t stay still and getting clothes off wasn’t going to happen any time soon, Harry pressed their groins together, because he had to see what would happen with  _that_.  
  
Malfoy went still, was what happened. His eyes widened and he lay there in stunned silence. Harry pressed down again.  
  
It was like the jolting touch of their tongues to each other. Harry again wondered how in the world he could have forgotten something like this.  
  
“Yeah,” said Malfoy, a long exhalation on a sigh. Some of his wildness seemed to have left him. By the time Harry looked at his face again, he had his head resting back on the floor and his hips rolling up, trying to touch Harry’s erection. Harry pressed down again in response.  
  
This time, the pleasure was so much more intense and shooting that it felt painful. Harry braced his hands on either side of Malfoy so he could spend some more time really  _grinding_. It was still painful, but even better. So much  _better_. Harry closed his eyes and bowed his head, grunting with effort. Malfoy’s hands were playing with his hair, the edges of his shirt, and down over his shoulders as if Harry was an instrument he liked to stir music from.  
  
“Come on,” Harry said, and didn’t know what he was asking for until Malfoy turned his head and kissed him again. Harry closed his eyes and lost himself in the kiss, ignoring the moment when Malfoy’s hand smoothed up his jaw and latched itself on there.  
  
“No, like this,” Malfoy said, pulling back with a gasp and rolling them over again. This time, he got his hand in between them and grasped Harry’s cock. Harry opened his mouth, but ended up saying nothing because he was too busy feeling as though someone had sent fire up his spine and into his brain.  
  
He’d never felt like this.  _Never_.  
  
Malfoy worked one hand on his cock and kissed Harry desperately, gropingly, turning his head from side to side. He couldn’t get his other hand up, or couldn’t do it without letting go of Harry, and Harry privately agreed that was a bad thing. He lifted his knees and shoved his groin forwards, as much as he could when his legs were colliding with Malfoy’s arm, and Malfoy gave an agreeing shout.  
  
Harry rolled them both to the side in the next second. He was going to climb on top of Malfoy, he was, but Malfoy’s hand slipped, and Harry couldn’t bear to lose his touch. He reached down and grabbed Malfoy’s erection instead.  
  
All he could feel was heat and the smooth shape of it against the cloth. He couldn’t hold onto it well; the angle was still wrong, and Malfoy was twisting, the collar of his shirt caught around his throat. But then they settled, and although things were still wrong and Harry’s shoulder ached, the important things were there.  
  
Those important things were:  
  
Harry’s cock in Malfoy’s hand.  
  
Malfoy’s cock in  _his_ hand.  
  
Malfoy swearing at him with a wide-open mouth, panting and filled with saliva, in the moments when Harry wasn’t kissing it. And him.  
  
Harry kissing his chin sometimes, and then ramming himself into Malfoy’s hand when Malfoy’s touch became a little more hesitant.  
  
Malfoy shuddering on an exhale and filling Harry’s hand with a mound of cooling wetness that somewhat obscured the shape of his cock in his pants where Harry could easily touch it.  
  
And then Harry—  
  
Harry coming in a way that outdid everything else he’d ever known by years and miles, his eyes wide open in wonder, his spine bowed, but his cock still safe and firmly-held by Malfoy’s hand pressed against him.  
  
*  
  
He fell limp and dazed afterwards. He knew Malfoy was still breathing only because he could feel the soft, regular puffs against his throat.   
  
Harry lay there with his eyes shut. He didn’t see why he should have to open them and move. He could get everything he needed laying right here, his hands at Malfoy’s groin and ribs, and his mouth drying out as he kept it open.  
  
“You—you acted wild.”  
  
Harry blinked. That was Malfoy, he realized in surprise, instead of something he’d said himself. He turned his head, and Malfoy was looking back at him solemnly out of eyes that were the color of polished stone.   
  
“Did I?” Harry shrugged a little and pushed his glasses up his nose. He was amazed they hadn’t fallen off. “I suppose it was—”  
  
He stopped.  
  
Then he grunted as Malfoy poked him under the ribs. “I’ve had it with mysterious silences, Potter. Tell me what you mean. Tell me what you’re thinking of.  _Always_ tell me what you’re thinking of.”  
  
Harry swallowed back a huge gasp of air and then said quietly, “That’s the first time in my memory that I’ve had sex.”  
  
He was thinking about how good it felt, how he kept thinking that he hadn’t felt anything like that before, but that was another thing the memory loss had stolen, wasn’t it? He  _could_ have felt something like that with Rob or Ginny. He just didn’t know.  
  
From what he’d seen of Ginny’s memories and read of the journal he kept when he was dating Rob, at least one thing was different. He hadn’t slept with those other people until he loved them. But with Malfoy he felt—lust? Comradeship? He didn’t know.  
  
 _I suppose I should have thought more about what it meant when I told other people I was a different person_.  
  
Malfoy’s hand on his hip broke his brooding. Harry looked up in time to see Malfoy staring at him with parted lips and such a storm of emotion in his eyes that Harry ducked his head. He wasn’t ready to see some of the things there. And not just because they were strong. Malfoy was feeling things again that—Harry didn’t know what to do with them. He knew perfectly well what they  _were_ , just not what to do with them.  
  
“I’m your first,” Malfoy said. “You’ll remember  _this_. And not  _them_.”  
  
“It’s not literally that I’m a virgin. It just feels like it.”  
  
Harry knew he hadn’t succeeded when he felt Malfoy shake his head. “No. You’re going to remember  _this_. They might have been  _his_ first lovers. I’m the one who was first with you. The person I actually want to get to know. The person who’s actually going to survive, instead of fade further and further away from the world with each year that passes.”  
  
Harry picked up his wand and conjured a pillow. Then he used the pillow to hit Malfoy deliberately over the head.  
  
Malfoy winced under the blow, but he was still grinning insanely when Harry looked up again. That had been what Harry found hard to face, he thought, as Malfoy lounged back and looked at him with some pride. That someone would be  _that_ thrilled to be with him and so proud of having had sex with him. It was—hard to face.  
  
Harder to say why, so Harry didn’t focus on it. He sighed and said, “Anyway. I did defeat you. But that doesn’t mean I could defeat every person who might want to duel with me in the context of a class and try to take the Elder Wand. Do you think I should—”  
  
“Shhh, Harry.”  
  
Astonished, Harry shut up. Malfoy’s expression had changed again. He reached out and gently pinched Harry’s lips shut, as if to make sure he wouldn’t say something _else_ that broke whatever mood Malfoy thought they had here, and then rolled himself onto Harry’s chest with a grunt of effort.  
  
Malfoy lay there and gazed at him. Harry started squirming after less than ten seconds of that, and not because Malfoy had accidently pressed down on a sensitive spot. Malfoy only smiled and went on looking.  
  
“Can we talk about something else,  _please_?” Harry finally burst out, when he had come to the conclusion that Malfoy wasn’t going to move of his own free will.  
  
“I wasn’t aware that we were talking.”  
  
Harry shut his eyes and turned his head away. “I want—I want to know if you were using your full power in the duel,” he finally forced out. “Because if you weren’t, then it’s kind of useless as a test of whether I’d be able to face someone who was.”  
  
“Of course it was my full power. I told you I wouldn’t try to hold back when it came to dueling you, and I meant it. Why did you think it wasn’t?”  
  
Harry frowned and said nothing. But he was wondering if his body could remember things that his brain couldn’t. Because it didn’t make sense that someone like Malfoy, with ten years of experience on him, could actually lose a duel to Harry, who had forgotten all his Auror training and the like, unless Harry was somehow remembering the Auror training.  
  
But he didn’t think so. He might remember a certain way he flicked his wand, or the sounds of a spell might raise echoes, the same way he felt he  _kind_ of knew what it was like to love Ron and Hermione’s children and Ginny, without actually knowing. But he didn’t think he could remember a spell.  
  
“Something—spoke to me during the duel,” he said. “There was a spell in the back of my head when I thought I would turn into a tree. And I shouldn’t have been able to defeat you when you’re twenty-eight and I’m eighteen.”  
  
“Mentally,” Malfoy said. “Physically there’s not that much difference between us. And I think you have an innate talent in Defense and dueling that’s always going to emerge in contests like this. Innate talent counts for a lot.”  
  
But he was frowning, too. Harry reached up and grabbed his hair. “You have some idea about that spell, don’t you?” he demanded. “ _Tell me_.”  
  
Malfoy grasped Harry’s hand and brought it away from his hair. “If you promise me something.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“After I tell you, we’ll go upstairs and go to sleep. I’m tired, and I think that you need the rest a good nap in a soft bed can provide.”  
  
“I promise,” Harry said instantly. He was willing to agree to anything, as long as Malfoy would tell him the truth.  
  
“I think it’s the Elder Wand.”  
  
Harry closed his eyes. That had been what he suspected, too, but he didn’t want to explain aloud why that was. Malfoy, lying on his chest and tracing Harry’s jawline with one finger, seemed perfectly happy to do it anyway.  
  
“You never had the kind of bond with the Elder Wand that you did before now. You used it to repair your other wand and tried to ignore the Elder one. I think that’s why it’s refusing to repair your holly one now. It’s tired of lying in one place and going unused. It wants to make sure you triumph, and if giving you new spells in the middle of battle is the way to do it, then it’ll do that.”  
  
“But I never heard about it doing anything like that for Dumbledore,” Harry whispered. “And doesn’t it want someone else to conquer me? It should have  _wanted_ you to win, because then the strongest wizard would own it.”  
  
“Has anyone else ever been the Master of Death?”  
  
Harry felt as though someone had jammed ice down his spine through his brain this time, instead of fire. He sat up, and he didn’t know what he was going to do. He wanted to leave. He wanted to argue back. He wanted to shout.  
  
“Hush.” Malfoy’s face was calm and polished like granite. He watched Harry with a terrible kind of compassion, which actually upset Harry more than raging back would have done. “It’s a fact that’s more recent for you than most people. I think most of them have forgotten it since the war. I never did, of course.”  
  
Harry sat slowly back down. “And it isn’t the kind of thing you and Old Harry discussed?”  
  
Malfoy laughed. “Harry Potter discuss things like that with  _me_?”  
  
Harry paused once more, but he was certain, now. “He didn’t treat you well, did he?” he whispered. “He really didn’t.”  
  
“Now you begin to see.” Malfoy turned to face him. Now his face was burning, and he breathed like a racehorse with the end of the race in sight. “No. It wasn’t lying to me, or taunting me with secrets he hinted at that I would never know, or making promises he didn’t keep. Or not only that. It was also knowing that I was that deeply invested in a man who would never return my investment.”  
  
Harry nodded. He could see that. It made him feel a little sick, but he could.  
  
“I remembered you were the Master of Death because I wanted to. Because I thought it a remarkable fact that the rest of the wizarding world was content to forget about and Old Harry was content to forget because it didn’t fit in with his glittering hero persona.” Malfoy grasped Harry’s wrist, raised his hand, and intertwined his own fingers with Harry’s. “I told you once why I felt this loss of your memory was a grand thing for me. I’m attracted to the new you, and I wasn’t to the old one. And I finally had the chance to learn certain things that I wanted to. You, from the inside.”  
  
With a rippling feeling, Harry remembered that Malfoy knew from the inside, too, what his past sexual experiences had been like. And he would know how intense they had been compared to this one—well, at least  _his_ side of this one. It was odd.  
  
“But,” Malfoy said, and pulled Harry’s attention back to him again, “I’m also happy because this might at last place us on an equal footing. I hated being obsessed with someone who would never be a tenth as interested in me. I  _despised_ it. I thought of myself in terms of the fans who read the newspaper articles about him and filled their world with him because they had nothing better to do.  
  
“But now I’m the only one you can depend on. And I’m your lover. It’s hard for me to imagine being more important to  _you_.”  
  
Harry shook his head a little. “You don’t need to sound so proud of it.”  
  
“But I also don’t need to lie about it. And I won’t.” This time, Malfoy pulled hard enough that Harry found himself standing up. “So come up to bed now. You promised you would, and I’ve explained far more than I originally promised. I’m not going to let  _you_ get away with lying to me, too.”  
  
Harry winced a little as he saw the way Malfoy’s eyes had narrowed, and nodded. “I won’t try that.”  
  
“Then we’ll have no problem,” Malfoy said, and wrapped an arm around Harry’s waist, and pulled Harry powerfully against him. Harry stumbled. Malfoy laughed softly and led him up the stairs to his bedroom.  
  
*  
  
Harry drifted in and out of sleep that night, and woke up near the morning, before Malfoy, to lie beside him and watch him. Malfoy was breathing with his mouth open, his head turned towards Harry.   
  
 _As if he needs to keep an eye on me to make sure I don’t break my promises even now._  
  
Harry closed his eyes. He wondered, for a second, why he wasn’t more offended by what Malfoy had said earlier. In a way, he was paying for Old Harry’s crimes against Malfoy just as much as if he got arrested by the Ministry. He didn’t owe Malfoy anything, if he was really a different person.  
  
Except that Malfoy had helped him. He’d come into St. Mungo’s to comfort him. He’d offered Harry the shelter of his house and figuring out whether he needed to give in to the Ministry at all. He’d come up with ideas about what Harry could do in the future, which was something Harry didn’t think he could do by himself.  
  
He had his price and things that he wanted because of that.  
  
 _I’m the only one you can depend on. I’m your lover._  
  
The first one wouldn’t always be true, Harry thought. As his friends got used to the idea that he was different and changed, they would come around or they wouldn’t, but Harry didn’t think they would all abandon him forever.  
  
And for the second…  
  
Harry looked at Malfoy where he sprawled on the bed, and smiled.   
  
He’d wanted Malfoy, and he’d liked  _being_  wanted, and he’d liked the pleasure.   
  
It wasn’t going to be such a hardship.


	26. The Past Intrudes

Harry woke up to a kiss on the back of his neck, a hovering shadow, and Malfoy saying softly into his ear, “Good morning.”  
  
“Good morning yourself,” Harry said, and told his suddenly shrieking modesty to find someone else to bother, and rolled over.  
  
Malfoy smiled sleepily at him. He was sprawled across most of the bed, tilting his hips back as if to invite Harry to admire him. One fold of the sheets lay across his groin, but Harry could make out the shadow of his hardening cock beneath that.  
  
“Want to?” Malfoy asked.  
  
Harry told his fear, this time, to go bother someone else, and reached down and began to stroke Malfoy. He slid his hand beneath the sheet at first, and waited until Malfoy’s jaw sagged and his eyes grew a little vague and distant. Then he pushed the sheet back and forced himself to look down at what he held.  
  
Nothing too terrible. There was a long, thin vein running the length of it, and a grunt left Harry’s mouth before he could think about it. He touched his finger to that, and Malfoy barked and bucked and seized his wrist.  
  
“Not so  _hard_.”  
  
“Really? But I thought you were.” Harry grinned at him, and then conquered another fear and bent down to take Malfoy into his mouth.  
  
It turned out not to be so bad, either. Harry couldn’t swallow it down right away—the way he thought vaguely that Old Harry must have done with Rob—because it seemed to catch on his jaw and he didn’t want to choke. But he licked and sucked a few times, and then leaned back and pressed his tongue directly to the vein Malfoy had told him not to touch.  
  
That made Malfoy shudder and come. Harry choked after all, his mouth full of liquid, and drew back and turned his head to the side to spit it out.  
  
Malfoy reached out and held his jaw like an arsehole, telling him in a strangely detached voice, as if he was watching someone else struggle with his semen, “Swallow.”  
  
Harry shook his head, tore free, and spat it over the side of the bed. Malfoy sat up, glaring as much as he could when his cheeks were that flushed, and said, “Do you _mind,_ Potter? That’ll make a mess for the house-elves to clean up. It’s disgusting.”  
  
“Not as disgusting as trying to swallow would have been right then, believe me,” Harry said, and leaned forwards to nip at Malfoy’s lips and splay a hand over his chest when he only sat there and scowled. “Come  _on_. You can’t be that angry at me.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because I just sucked you off.”  
  
Malfoy finally laughed, but then said, “You needn’t think I’m going to return the favor this morning, not when that mess is still all over the floor.” His hand skated over Harry’s chest and pinched one of his nipples. Harry arched into it, having a slight, instinctive feeling that it would make things even better. It did.  
  
Malfoy grabbed his shoulders suddenly and rolled him down onto the pillow. Harry went with it. Malfoy had said he wouldn’t suck him off, but maybe he had changed his mind.  
  
He hadn’t, though. He hovered over Harry for a second, staring, and Harry got uncomfortable. Malfoy could do whatever he wanted in the privacy of his own bed when he wasn’t sharing it with Harry, but things got sort of weird when he was. Harry tried to get Malfoy off him by elbowing him in the stomach, and Malfoy grunted but didn’t move away.  
  
“What?” Harry finally snapped. Another way of easing the discomfort was probably just starting a fight.  
  
“You have no idea,” Malfoy said, with a slight whistling sound on the last word as if he was a balloon leaking air, “how beautiful you are.”  
  
He reached down and touched Harry’s cheekbone, eyelid, forehead—the parts of Harry he didn’t feel were especially beautiful. Maybe some people liked the scar. He didn’t know.  
  
 _I wouldn’t know. Old Harry is the one who got all the compliments in the past ten years and had to answer them. For all I know, people find my cheekbones beautiful all the time, and I just haven’t got compliments since I woke up because Ginny was used to them._  
  
Harry flushed again and tried to turn his head away, but that only made Malfoy’s finger stray and poke him in the eye. Harry yelped with pain and brought his hands up to protect his face. Malfoy pulled his own hand back. Harry knew he would be shaking his head even though he was having trouble seeing right now.  
  
“I don’t really understand,” Malfoy said, sounding almost as though he was talking to someone not in the room. “Why you? It could have been a lot of other people who captured my attention after the war. It could even have been one of the others I had to try and brew a complicated potion for. Just because I kept failing in the potion your old self wanted me to brew is no reason to get obsessed with you.”  
  
“That’s a question I can’t answer, either,” Harry grumbled, rubbing at his eye. At least it felt like an eye again and not like a quivering mass of sensitive jelly. He opened it cautiously and saw Malfoy sitting there and gazing down at him like Harry was all the mysteries of the universe in human form. “Because the one who had the answers and who you probably talked to about it is gone.”  
  
“I was asking myself more than you. I know you can’t answer it.” Malfoy’s grin suddenly flashed. “That pleases me. It was obvious that your old self took pleasure in being the sadistic one in the relationship, but that should be me.”  
  
“You didn’t have a  _relationship_ with him,” Harry said, just to be contrary.  
  
“And I suppose you would say I don’t have one with you.” Malfoy gave him another sharp smile. “Even though I would say I  _do_.”  
  
He rolled to the side, and his hand came down and clamped around Harry’s cock. Harry stiffened and quivered. He’d honestly almost forgotten about how randy he was while he was talking with Malfoy. Now he closed his eyes and thrust forwards and just hoped that Malfoy would continue holding on.  
  
“What would you say now?” Malfoy continued in an airy and definitely sadistic tone from above him.  
  
“I—would say—jerk me off,” Harry said, in a voice that echoed the tremors racing through him.  
  
Malfoy took his hand away, ignoring Harry’s harsh cry of loss, and leaned down towards him. “I want you to ask.”  
  
“I just  _did_.”  
  
“That was a demand. A question has more words, including  _please_ , usually.”  
  
“I can tell you several that don’t,” Harry said, and proceeded to shout some examples. Malfoy just listened to him talk, humming and nodding now and then as if he was noting down some particularly choice insult to use later.  
  
“None of that lessens my desire to hear you use the word  _please_ ,” he finally murmured.  
  
Harry shuddered. His groin was aching now, and honestly, he  _did_ want to come, and what Malfoy did after that, and what he had to do in pursuit of that, seemed equally unimportant.  
  
“Please make me come,” he whispered, and then looked straight at Malfoy, wondering if that wasn’t enough and Malfoy would make him beg some more.  
  
But maybe Malfoy was tired of the teasing himself, because he reached down and caught hold of Harry in a firm grip, working him back and forth. Harry found his head tilting further and further back—his teeth caught his lower lip—there was a curve to his spine that he didn’t think he’d ever experienced before—  
  
And he dropped, or fell, or whatever the right term should be, and he came, and Malfoy reached down and stirred his hand through the mess covering Harry’s cock and brought it up to Harry’s lips to lick.  
  
Harry turned his head away, shuddering. Malfoy prodded at his shut lips again with a little clucking, scolding noise. “Come on, now. You know there’s no way that you’ll get on with me if you don’t learn to swallow.”  
  
“Maybe I’d prefer to swallow yours instead of mine.”  
  
“Well, you wasted it all on the floor, but that can be arranged at a later date,” Malfoy said, and took his hand away. Harry heard a sucking, slurping noise, and shuddered again with his eyes closed. He didn’t dare to look for a few minutes, and when he did, he found Malfoy licking his lips with a satisfied expression. He shook his head at Harry. “You’ll learn to like it.”  
  
“I doubt it,” Harry said flatly, and then he stood up and made his way to the shower.  
  
Of course Malfoy insisted that he couldn’t shower alone, and that meant they were both late to breakfast. Or they would have been late if there had been anyone other than the house-elves to keep track of time and worry about them.  
  
*  
  
Harry was laughing at something Malfoy had said—a stupid joke he couldn’t even remember later, when he thought remembering it would have helped—when he heard a hammering on the window. He spun around, hand falling to his wand automatically. He thought he could feel a wind of laughter in the back of his head. The Elder Wand was eager for battle.  
  
But Malfoy didn’t look alarmed. He only raised his eyebrows and clapped his hands, and a house-elf appeared and hurried over to the window. “It’s an apparently suicidal owl,” he murmured, when Harry looked at him. “I don’t know what it thinks it’s doing, but best we let in rather than have the elves scrub blood off the windows later.”  
  
Harry opened his mouth to answer, but the window opened and the owl dived across the room at  _him_. Harry ducked and reached out a hand for the letter, but the owl circled in agitation and then came diving at him again. It reminded him of Pig, but Pig was just excitable and this owl seemed like it wanted to hurt him.  
  
“ _Timeo_ ,” Malfoy cast. The spell hit the owl in a wave of blue light, and it screeched for a moment and then settled on the edge of the table, cowering away from Malfoy.  
  
“I haven’t seen that hex before,” Harry said, blinking. The owl could barely look at Malfoy, but it let him take the letter. “What does it do?”  
  
“Makes someone or something afraid of you but docile,” Malfoy said absently, looking at the letter. Apparently there was nothing on the outside, because he turned it over and opened it. “There are others that would make something afraid but hostile, and others that would make something catatonic with fear.”  
  
“No, thank you. And stop reading  _my_  post.”  
  
“It could be from someone who wishes you ill. Like Kelvin.”  
  
Harry scowled, reluctant to admit the point, and reached for the letter again anyway. Malfoy let him take it, although he was frowning. Harry studied the handwriting and stifled an exasperated sigh.  
  
“Rob,” he told Malfoy, who only nodded. He’d probably already seen that, the nosy bastard. Resigned, Harry turned back to study whatever Rob thought was so important.   
  
 _Harry,_  
  
 _It’s been long enough without an answer to my letter that I can only assume it was intercepted or that you’ve decided against replying to it. I have to send you another one._  
  
 _Not everyone who holds the secrets of your past is a criminal or a Weasley. And I don’t think you have any chance of discovering this one without my help._ Please  _write to me. Either that, or meet with me. That would at least increase the chance that the letter won’t be taken. I’ve sent this with my fastest and most aggressive owl, but then, I thought the last one was safe, too. Please respond._  
  
 _Love,_  
 _Rob._  
  
Harry sighed and rubbed his forehead. “If it’s something really important, why can’t he just put it  _in_ the damn letter?” he muttered.  
  
“Because he wants you to reply to him. To be bound to him. He wants you to meet with him and look in his eyes and tell him you don’t love him anymore. It’s the only way he’ll accept it.”  
  
Harry blinked and looked up. Malfoy was sitting on the edge of the dining room table—something Harry never would have thought he’d do—bent forwards with his eyes shining like metal balls. “You sound as if you understand him.”  
  
“I do,” Malfoy said calmly. “I also loathe him, but I understand him. Because it’s what I would do in his place, if I thought I had a new chance with someone I loved and _obviously_ wasn’t over. Even though he doesn’t have that chance because you’re with me.” He reached out and looped a hand through Harry’s arm. Harry gasped at the intensity of the touch. He supposed it would look casual from a distance, but up close, it really, really wasn’t. Malfoy pressed down on him. “You’ll be with me from now on.”  
  
“I’ll be with you if I decide that I  _want_ to,” Harry corrected, and glared a little, and ripped his hand free.  
  
Malfoy immediately sat back with a neutral expression. He said nothing else, and Harry glanced again through Rob’s letter. But nothing had changed in it, it was no more informative, and when he tried a few spells just because he thought they might show him something that had been secret, nothing appeared.  
  
“I suppose I’ll have to meet him if I want more information,” Harry finally muttered.  
  
“Not on my watch.”  
  
“Listen,” Harry said, and rolled his eyes at Malfoy. “Just because I find myself in the same room with someone I once dated doesn’t mean that I’m going to be overwhelmed by lust and tackle him. You can trust me.”  
  
“But not him.”  
  
“I don’t think he’ll tackle me, either.” Harry shook his head. “He’s like you. He believes that I’m not the man I once was—”  
  
“ _That is a problem_.”  
  
Harry stared at Malfoy. His voice had become so sharp that Harry felt as though the words were scratching him. But it was Malfoy’s eyes that really shut him up. They were mad, blazing, as though Malfoy wanted to attack Harry the way the owl had.  
  
“He could have something important to tell me,” Harry said tightly. “I’m sorry you don’t like it, but I do have to go meet him.”  
  
“If he wants you, and he thinks that you’re coming to him, and now you’re even more different from the man you once were—” Malfoy was quivering, but Harry didn’t think it had anything to do with fear. “You’ve  _slept_ with a man. That leaves a trace on you, a mark that can’t be hidden. He could find you even more desirable because of that—”  
  
“Okay, what is this shit?” Harry asked, because Malfoy was starting to irritate him and he thought maybe the word would make Malfoy pay attention. “The idea that I’m marked or visible or something—technically I already wasn’t a virgin, and I probably did more with him than I did with you even though I don’t remember it—”  
  
He stopped. Malfoy had stood and turned his back on Harry.  
  
“If you go to him,” said Malfoy, and his voice was empty, “then you do it without my interference, but also without my support.” He glanced back at Harry, and his eyes had gone aloof. “I will have nothing to do with this madness.”  
  
“I don’t know if he would even talk to me if you were there.”  
  
From the way Malfoy drew up his shoulders, that was something Harry shouldn’t have said. But it was the truth! Harry didn’t see the point in hiding and denying things that were real simply because Malfoy might have preferred to ignore them.  
  
And Harry didn’t even know why he would have preferred to ignore them. He breathed as deeply and calmly as he could, and finally asked, “Why do you think it’s such a big deal for me to see Rob now that I’ve had sex with you?”  
  
Malfoy answered in a flat voice without turning around. “Because he would want you more than anything now, and you won’t promise to stay mine.”  
  
Harry shook his head. “No one can simply  _possess_ me. And it doesn’t matter if they had a sexual relationship with me at one point, or have one now, or…”   
  
He let his voice trail off. Malfoy sat there with his back to him. Harry wondered, with a feeling that was like stepping into a house he expected to be warm and lit only to find it dark and cold, whether he would be kicked out of Malfoy Manor, too.  
  
He had to ask, or he would wonder until his head ached. He forced a smile and a calm question. “Am I going to be exiled from here if I decide to go speak to him?”  
  
Malfoy turned around and stared at him. “Of  _course_ not.”  
  
That decided Harry. He nodded. “Then I’m going to go speak to him.”  
  
Malfoy looked away again.  
  
Harry sighed. It was odd to walk away from someone he’d slept with last night—and this morning, too—without a word, but given the memories he’d seen, it wasn’t the weirdest thing he had done in the past ten years, either.  
  
“Good-bye,” he did say, as he went to write a response Rob’s owl could take. He had no idea where to Apparate yet.  
  
Malfoy only hunched his shoulders and said nothing. Harry shrugged, and summoned a house-elf to ask for parchment and ink.


	27. The Offer

“Rob? Are you here?” Harry knocked again, and listened to the sound echo through what seemed like empty corridors.  
  
He was standing in front of a long, low house that seemed to be built back into a grey-green hill. Harry thought he was somewhere in Ireland, but since he’d made three Apparition hops based on the directions Rob sent him with the next owl, he couldn’t be sure. There didn’t appear to be any Muggles nearby, though. The air around Harry was quiet in a way that it never was when Harry was in Privet Drive.  
  
 _But who knows what things are like now?_  
  
Harry shook his head a little. He kept thinking of things he would have to get familiar with after ten years of lost memories; one thing that he had thought about before but which wasn’t near the top of his list was the Muggle world, and the changes in it.  
  
The door whisked open at last. Rob stood there, in front of what looked like an enormous, empty room with big, polished flagstones on the floor and walls, staring at him.  
  
“You invited me here,” Harry finally said, when the staring started to irritate him. “Aren’t you going to invite me _in_?”  
  
“Of course. Of course.” Rob stepped back, shaking his head. “Forgive me. I’m not used to seeing you look—like you look.”  
  
“Sane?” Harry asked, as he stepped into the house. It was all made of stone, and it was all empty—at first. But then Harry started to see shivers and shakes in the air out of the corner of his eye, and when he turned around to fully face them, he could see better. The furniture in the room, and maybe other things too, were all under glamours or Disillusionment Charms.   
  
“You could call it that. You used to be interested in some Dark Arts things that horrified me,” Rob agreed as he closed the door.  
  
“Do you think I still am?” Harry gestured around the room. “Why is everything hidden underneath illusions?”  
  
A startled look flashed across Rob’s face, and he shook his head a little. “I didn’t expect you to notice that,” he muttered. A wave of his wand, and the furniture started to appear. There was a large table, and larger chairs around it. The fireplace seemed to take up most of the left wall. Harry could see two doors besides the one he’d entered through, each leading in a different direction.  
  
“You didn’t answer my questions.”  
  
“I think you’re saner than you were,” said Rob, turning to face him and crossing his arms. “If I _really_ doubted that, then I wouldn’t have invited you in or offered to tell you this last secret. But I thought you might still betray me to Malfoy, and the less details you had about my house, the better.”  
  
Harry stared at him. “You’re _afraid_ of Malfoy?”  
  
“Of course. He has a reputation as a Potions brewer that makes him out to be—well, not as evil as Kelvin, but only a little less good at potions in general. And he’s obsessed with you. And I know he wants me to die.”  
  
Harry wandered slowly over to a huge chair made of sleek wood, toying with the cushions that lay there. They were red, and had gold tassels. “I don’t think he wants you to _die_. But he doesn’t think you’re good for me.”  
  
“Neither is he.”  
  
Harry sighed and turned to face Rob. “I really didn’t come here to discuss Malfoy. I came to talk about the secret you said you had to tell me. Are you going to?”  
  
“I made a promise. Of course I am.”  
  
They stood there, and finally Harry felt he was the one who had to break the tableau, so he sat down in the chair and stared up at Rob. “All right. When?”  
  
Rob sighed and took the chair across from him, leaning his chin on his hand as he studied Harry. “Forgive me. It’s simply stunning to see you like this. And it makes me wonder if I should tell you the truth after all. At the very least, it’s going to make it harder for you to heal from the past the way you are now.”  
  
“Tell me.”  
  
Rob considered him again. “Are you even _thinking_ about what I just said? Or are you just insisting on being told because you don’t like secrets?”  
  
“Oh, _guess_.”  
  
Rob winced a second later. “All right, I suppose I deserved that.” He waved his wand, and a tray containing two glasses of what looked like sparkling water came in from the other room. He offered the bigger glass to Harry. Harry didn’t need Malfoy’s paranoia to know that it might be a bad idea to drink it. He took it, but balanced the glass on the arm of his chair and went on watching Rob with polite skepticism.  
  
Rob muttered something about deserving it again, then shook his head and downed half his own “water” at a gulp. “I found out about this only after you turned your back on me,” he said. “Or your old self did. I thought about confronting you—him—with it, but he would never give me a chance. And if I had tried to simply talk about it to the papers, I would have had to reveal our relationship. Then he would probably have managed to spin it as jealousy about him leaving me and ‘falling in love’ with Weasley.”  
  
“I think he was as in love with Ginny as he could possibly manage.” Harry held up a hand when Rob started to open his mouth. “I’m not saying that you have to like it. Just that I want you to blame him, not Ginny.”  
  
“I understand what you’re saying,” Rob said, and the bitterness in his voice made Harry wince in spite of himself. “All right. I don’t need encouragement to blame him, though. He created a spell that resembles the Imperius Curse, but it was subtler, and could evade the ways the Ministry had of detecting the Unforgivable Curses.” He looked straight at Harry. “So he set it up in such a way that he was influencing the minds of at least a quarter of the other Aurors. That’s the truth.”  
  
Harry sat there, his fingers cramped around his glass. Then he drew in his breath and whispered, “What?”  
  
“I told you what it was.” Rob sighed. “You—he—never enslaved Weasley. He seemed to have some kind of sentiment about that.” He glared at Harry. “But he did it with plenty of other people. He just needed to get the Aurors alone once and cast the spell on them. He called it ‘attuning.’ After that, he needed to speak a series of words or give them some kind of series of gestures, and that made them recite a bunch of things back to him. Things they’d observed and learned since he last saw them. I think that’s how he got a lot of the information that let him make more arrests than any other Auror. Aurors who were actually _assigned_ to the cases would come and tell him about them first.”  
  
Harry closed his eyes. He felt ill. Surely not even Old Harry would have done something that bad…  
  
On the other hand, this was the man who had donated blood and skin to Draco Malfoy and created a portrait with a shard of his soul inside that was essentially a Horcrux.  
  
“That means,” Harry said, staring over Rob’s shoulder at the wall and trying to speak as calmly as he could when he’d just been told _that_ , “I wasn’t blackmailing all of them. Maybe I couldn’t find anything to blackmail some of them about. And the Enthrallment Potion…”  
  
“It didn’t affect all of them,” said Rob, with a shake of his head. “Or maybe some of them are resistant to it.” He shrugged. “There were Aurors who worked more closely with the Department of Mysteries than most of the others. It’s not impossible that they learned to resist potions like that. Some of them were taught to resist Veritaserum, I know.”  
  
“Oh.” Harry closed his eyes and sat there for a second. He didn’t remember a reference to a spell like that in any of the letters or books he’d uncovered, but then again, he wouldn’t have known about the Horcrux portrait either if not for his visit to Malfoy’s little museum of horrors.  
  
Harry finally managed to make his throat work and his voice come out clearly. “How did you know about it?”  
  
“Because I’m one of the people he explained it to willingly.”  
  
Harry opened his eyes at once. “Who are the others?”  
  
“None of them remember, now.”  
  
Rob was staring at him as if waiting for him to notice something, and Harry did, a second later. “ _Shit_ ,” he muttered. “So when you said you figured it out later and confronted him about it, you had to do that because—”  
  
“He’d explained it to me,” said Rob, with a small nod. “And then _Obliviated_ me. As far as I can tell, he _Obliviated_ everyone else who helped him develop the spell, too. I only discovered the traces later because he was a _little_ careless about some of the objects he left behind in the flat we used to share. He probably thought I’d hate him so much I’d just get rid of everything or send it back to him without looking through it.”  
  
“Why did you decide to look through it?”  
  
“Because I wanted to know why he’d decided to romance Weasley.” Rob leaned his head back wearily against the chair and closed his eyes. “Why love wasn’t enough for him, why he had to fulfill everyone’s expectations instead. I didn’t really find what I wanted as far as that went, but I did find the mention of that spell.”  
  
Harry thought of the memories he’d seen and the letters he’d read where Old Harry had begged Malfoy to design some potion that would make him a good person. And his greatest fear seemed to be someone finding out that he wasn’t really as good a person as he’d pretended, unless that person was already Dark themselves.  
  
 _Like Kelvin. Or Malfoy, the way Old Harry thought of him._  
  
Harry had to put aside the question for now of whether Malfoy had actually been Dark. Whether he still was, after he’d cast that spell that allowed him to live through all of Harry’s experiences. He opened his eyes. “So he went around _Obliviating_ people and then blamed himself for it later,” he said. “Once again, he did something Dark that he thought was good, and then he used the Memory Charm telling himself it was for the best, and then he felt bad later.”  
  
“ _You remember_?”  
  
Rob’s voice quivered like an arrow stuck in a target. Harry looked at him and shook his head. “No. I’m just extrapolating what I’m pretty sure was his mindset, based on other things I’ve learned about him, and the regrets he had.”  
  
“Oh.” Rob sank slowly back again and sipped some more at his “water.” “So.” He licked his lips and finished in a rush, “So this is information I’m giving you that I could have kept to myself, and you might never have known it.”  
  
“Yes?” Harry asked, a little more cautiously now. He could see a gleam in Rob’s eyes that might have matched the one in Malfoy’s eyes in intensity, although by the time Harry had really started paying attention, he thought Malfoy had toned it down a bit.  
  
“So you need to figure out how you’re going to make up for it.” Rob clutched the glass hard enough that Harry heard it creaking. “And I could help you do that. I’m the one who has the most details, and I can show them to you, and maybe from that and the echoes of your memories we can figure out—”  
  
Harry shook his head. “When I said the memories are gone, I mean it. I can’t use them to figure out anything, because they’re _gone_.”  
  
“You have some means of learning more about yourself.” Rob kept his gaze locked on Harry. “You just said it. You just said that some of _his_ actions made sense to you because you’d learned things about him.”  
  
“Yes,” Harry said unwillingly. He was wondering if he should have come at all, or simply insisted on Rob telling him the truth by letter. Maybe Rob would never have done it, but Harry couldn’t see that this was worse than all the other crimes he’d committed. “All right. So?”  
  
“How are you going to make up for this?” Rob made a small motion with one hand, like he was ripping apart a veil between him and Harry. “You were talking about making up for your crimes the last time I saw you.”  
  
“Yes,” said Harry, and rolled his shoulders. He could guess why Rob had invited him over now. He wanted to be at Harry’s side when he became the man Rob probably thought he _should_ have been.  
  
And only a week ago, Harry would have wanted that. But now he’d had time to think, and he’d been exposed to Malfoy’s arguments and the things Malfoy had told him about Old Harry that Harry didn’t think Rob had ever known.  
  
“You don’t feel like that anymore.”  
  
Rob’s voice was like frozen crystal. Harry looked him in the eye and shook his head as gently as he could. “No. I don’t. Sorry.”  
  
Rob slowly swallowed. Then his voice bellowed out, so loud that Harry covered his ears before he thought about it. “ _Why not_?”   
  
Harry dropped his hands and simply said, “Malfoy. He said some things to me that made a lot of difference. He pointed out that this is my new life, and what point would it make for me to serve time inside Azkaban when I can’t even remember the crimes? Ron tried to help me go to the Ministry and testify, but there’s really no legal precedent for something like this happening, especially when they can’t get at the memories on their own. They did try. The thing they used broke. And then Kelvin came after me. I don’t think I should try to make up for what I did to people like him.”  
  
“Of _course_ not! But people like the ones you used the Memory Charm on when you developed that spell, and the Aurors you used the spell itself on, and me—”  
  
“It sounds like you want me to make up for what happened to you by going to Azkaban,” Harry said. He looked at Rob and saw the way he had half-started up out of the chair. Harry laid his hand on the Elder Wand and tried not to listen to it laughing in the back of his head. “I’m not interested in doing that anymore. I’m really a different person. I can’t make up for what Old Harry did.”  
  
“Yes, you can.”  
  
“How?”  
  
“By paying whatever the penalty is for those crimes. If that means going to Azkaban, _do it_.” Harry flinched at how hard Rob’s voice was. “And when you come out, you’ll have at least gained one thing.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Me.”  
  
Rob had risen from his chair now and was crossing the distance between them. Harry saw how he was looking at Harry’s lips, and he shook his head and stood up and drew his Elder Wand without thinking about it.   
  
Rob stopped and stared at him. “That’s not your wand.”  
  
“My wand broke during the duel with Kelvin, and I couldn’t repair it. This is my wand now, the one I conquered.” Harry wasn’t about to tell Rob that this was the Elder Wand. Rob would probably decide it was another sign that he was evil. “Back off, Rob. I appreciate you telling me about that spell. But I don’t appreciate you trying to make me feel that I’m evil if I don’t spend the rest of my life making up for my mistakes.”  
  
“But you _wanted_ to do that!” Rob almost yelled the words, and then closed his eyes and tugged for a second on his hair. “I don’t understand you. I really don’t. You seemed sane and normal again—more sane and normal than you’d been for years—until Malfoy got hold of you, and then you started listening to him instead.”  
  
“I started listening to common sense,” Harry corrected him. “If I’m serious about being a different person from Old Harry, why in the world am I running around trying to make up for things he did? I can’t remember them. I didn’t do them. I can apologize. I could even donate money, if that would make up for something. Or send back the amounts of money I took from the people I blackmailed. But I can’t really make up for the pain and fear I caused them, and I’m not going to try it.”  
  
“You could make up for what you did to _me_.”  
  
Harry stared into Rob’s eyes. “How?”  
  
He saw the answer before Rob tried to lean forwards and kiss him. Harry stood up and waved the Elder Wand in a quick circle. Again a spell he’d never heard before had leaped into the back of his mind, just like the counter to the curse Malfoy had used to try and turn him into a tree. “ _Addo aspectum!_ ”  
  
The air around him seemed to shake. Rob’s eyes widened, and he crashed to his knees, trying to wrap his hands around his face.  
  
“I—I thought you were a better person than that,” he whispered, and then he stared at Harry again and flinched back.  
  
Harry shook his head. He would have to look up what the spell did, but he was sure it had at least changed Rob’s perspective on him.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, and then turned and walked out of Rob’s house as rapidly as he could.  
  
His hand was shaking, he realized a few seconds later. But the Elder Wand was perfectly steady.   
  



	28. The Waking

“I didn’t feel you come back home.”  
  
Harry grunted a little at Malfoy and went back to flicking through the book in front of him. He’d found three libraries in Malfoy’s house so far, two of them exclusively devoted to Potions and Dark Arts. This one seemed to be more general, but there was no organization to the books as far as Harry could tell. He’d found this tome, about spells that affected sight, sitting right next to a history of the goblin rebellions.  
  
“Yes, you’re very mature to ignore me.”  
  
“I’m not trying to ignore you.” Harry leaned back and let his head sag on his neck for a second, trying to relax tense muscles. “I just—I cast a spell on Rob, and it was one of those damn ones that the Elder Wand suggested to me and I didn’t know before. I’m trying to find a reference to it.”  
  
“And you didn’t think to ask me?”  
  
Malfoy had glided up to him by now. Harry sighed, glanced at the offended look on his face, and said, “Okay. The incantation is _Addo aspectum_.” He thought he felt the Elder Wand shift around in his pocket when he said the words, and he frowned down at it.  
  
Malfoy didn’t seem to notice the frown, or at least he didn’t care much about it. He was shaking his head. “That doesn’t do anything.”  
  
“What? Then why would the Elder Wand tell me to cast it?”  
  
“I _mean_ ,” Malfoy said, with a martyred sigh, “it does something, but nothing bad. When you told me you’d cast a spell on your former toy, I thought it was a curse. That’s just the Clarifying Spell. It forces a person to share your perceptions of something for a moment. They mostly use it when they’re having problems with Translation Charms or an inventor needs someone else to share his vision of a complex machine he’s come up with. Especially inventors who can’t draw.”  
  
Harry blinked and sat back. “Then what…” He understood a second later. Presumably, the spell would have shown Rob the way Harry thought of himself now, and Malfoy, and Rob, and why he had decided to turn his back on making up for his crimes.   
  
“That actually sounds helpful. Why would the Elder Wand want me to cast a helpful spell?”  
  
“Probably for the same reason I would have wanted you to cast it, if I was there.” Malfoy reached out and took hold of Harry’s hand, holding it until Harry hissed in protest at what Malfoy was doing to his fingers. Even then, Malfoy didn’t back off, still staring at him, still breathing as though his breath was going to flay his lungs. Harry tugged on his hand, glaring. Malfoy finally let him go.   
  
“What’s that reason?”  
  
“To get him away from you. To convince him that you’ve changed and you’re never going to go back to being his _precious lover_.”  
  
Malfoy spoke the words as if they were poison he needed to spit from his mouth as soon as possible. Harry shook his head a little and turned away. “I don’t—Malfoy, what he likes about me is the fact that I’ve changed. He didn’t want to date the man I was. He _hated_ Old Harry.”  
  
“No,” Malfoy said at once, savagely. “He thinks that you’ve changed _back_ into something he could have had, someone he once liked, rather than into something new. And that’s why he should fuck off as soon as possible.” Malfoy had apparently regained a little of his control over himself, because he sat back and half-closed his eyes. “Because you haven’t gone back. You can never go back. You can only go forwards.”  
  
“What the Elder Wand wants me to go forwards to might not be great.”  
  
“It would be great. Just not _good_.”  
  
Harry shook his head at once. “I’m not getting involved in those debates where I wonder if I’m a good person the way that Old Harry did. You saw what it did to him.”  
  
“And what about what _I_ want you to go towards?”  
  
Harry leaned slowly back. “I didn’t know that you wanted me to be anything but your lover,” he said.  
  
Malfoy curled his lip. “Count on me to have more ambition than _that_. Especially for someone I plan to be involved with.”  
  
“So that _does_ come into it—”  
  
“Yes, but not exclusively,” Malfoy said, and leaned in again. “This is one difference between me and everyone else who might want you to do something, Potter. I _promise_ you that I want you to be more than one thing. Not just my lover. Not just the friend that Weasley and Granger want for you—”  
  
“You don’t know Ron and Hermione well enough to say—”  
  
“And not just the shallow good person that your old lover wants you to be.” Malfoy raised his voice a little, and glared back at him. “I think you have a chance to do something _other_ than mope around like _he_ did and give in to the worries about your supposed Darker nature. Don’t forget that.”  
  
“I just said that I didn’t intend to, didn’t I? That I won’t get involved in the same debates about whether I’m good or not that Old Harry did.” Harry folded his arms and glared at Malfoy. “It’s like you never listen to me. I don’t think someone who never listens to me can actually be a good lover _or_ friend for me.”  
  
“Have you thought about it?”  
  
“Thought about what?”  
  
“Staying with me.”  
  
“I thought that was what I was doing.”  
  
With a snort of disgust, Malfoy stood up. “I’ve done you the compliment of not treating you like you were stupid,” he snapped, and walked towards the library door. “Do the same for me. You know very well what I meant.”  
  
Harry sighed and closed his eyes. “Don’t treat me like I’m stupid, but treat me like I’m missing these memories of all the interactions I might have had with you in the past ten years. I genuinely don’t know what you mean.”  
  
He heard the soft shuffles of Malfoy’s feet as he came back into the library. “So you really don’t know, then.”  
  
“No. I know what you wanted from me when I was Old Harry. But now—your lover. Why do you want more than that?”  
  
“Because I think you _could_ become great. And I know what it’s like to be you from the inside. That means I can’t be indifferent to you.” Malfoy gave a rusty laugh that sounded like the creaking of a gate hinge. “As much as I wish I _could_ be, sometimes.”  
  
“I know,” Harry said. He had the feeling he was talking to himself. “I wish I could be indifferent about a lot of things. I wouldn’t be in this mess if Old Harry had just been a little more indifferent to the opinions of other people.”  
  
Malfoy was coming closer, by the sound. “What did Rob want to tell you?”  
  
“That Old Harry had developed a variant of the Imperius Curse he cast on several Aurors. They would tell him about cases and juicy leads.” Harry sighed and opened his eyes. “I remember Ron saying that at least Old Harry was a good Auror. It seems he wasn’t.”  
  
Malfoy stood as still as though Harry had struck him, staring. Then he shook his head a little. “He couldn’t have developed a spell like that.”  
  
Harry blinked. “Why not?”  
  
“Because,” Malfoy said, “I’m the one who did.”  
  
Harry stood up slowly. He had no idea what he was going to do when his brain caught up to his body. At the moment, he only knew that he wanted to be on his feet and over closer to Malfoy.  
  
He moved towards him. Malfoy didn’t retreat. Maybe he didn’t think he needed to. He simply stood there and stared up at Harry with an almost fearless expression.  
  
 _Almost._  
  
“Why would you do something like that?” Harry whispered. “I thought you were a Potions maker, not a spell creator—” He cut himself off. That he should say that first was disgusting. There were so many more important things to worry about. “Why would you give it to _him_? When you know that he was crazy?”  
  
“I wanted him to admire me.” Malfoy shook his head. “And to let me into his mind, and to let me do the experiments I wanted. He made it a condition of continuing the experiments that I give him the spell. I was happy enough to do that. The challenge was making it. After that, there was nothing to be done with it. There was no one I really wanted to use it on. Except him, and he was resistant to the Imperius Curse.”  
  
Harry closed his eyes and turned his head away. Malfoy said nothing. Harry was the one who had to find the words, by which time he had crossed the library again and was staring dully at the shelves.  
  
“You didn’t think to tell me this?”  
  
“Why would I want to prejudice my chances with you? So no, I didn’t tell you.”  
  
Harry’s hands curled further and further into claws. But Malfoy didn’t move or run away. He simply stood where he was, staring expectantly at Harry. Harry took a glance down at his own hands and forced them open.   
  
He wouldn’t attack Malfoy, and he knew they both knew it. He said instead, “So being my lover, or getting close to me, or doing experiments, or whatever, was more important to you than doing the right thing.”  
  
Malfoy snorted. It sounded as loud as a boom, and when Harry’s eyes shot to him, Malfoy was already speaking.  
  
“Don’t come the pretentious moralist with _me_. You knew from the time you saw that Horcrux portrait, if not before, that I wasn’t as good as you are. Or were trying to be. I knew some of what you were doing when you were Old Harry, and I didn’t stop it. I made illegal, dangerous potions for him. I never reported him to the Aurors. I made that spell and gave it to him, yes. It’s far, _far_ from the worst thing I’ve done. The Horcrux portrait was probably worse, when it comes to pure Dark Arts.”  
  
Harry said nothing. He put his head in his hands. It was as if he had found out that Ron was the one helping him blackmail people, instead of Kelvin.  
  
“You knew I wasn’t a _good_ person, whatever way you choose to define that.” Malfoy sneered at him out of the corner of his mouth when Harry looked up again. “Don’t act as though this is new and surprising information.”  
  
Harry cleared his throat. “It isn’t surprising. It’s just upsetting.”  
  
“Does that mean you’ll continue to stay here instead of running off like an idiot?”  
  
Harry shook his head and Summoned his things, trying to ignore the thrum of happiness that ran through the Elder Wand when he used it. “It means I’m going to take a room at the Leaky Cauldron and try to work out what I should do next, and then I’ll ask Kingsley what strides they’ve made in repairing the protections on Grimmauld Place.”  
  
“I didn’t tell you about it because I didn’t remember it! I didn’t think it was a bigger deal than the other things I’ve done that you wouldn’t approve of.”  
  
Harry didn’t say anything. He simply gathered up the few clothes that he’d brought, and the trunk, and nodded at a few of the books that lay on the table. “Do you mind if I take these with me?”  
  
“Yes, I _do_ mind!”  
  
Harry turned away and gathered up the trunk without answering. His shoulders and spine ached as if he’d spent the night on a hard floor.  
  
Malfoy seized him and spun him around again. He was looming right in front of Harry, breathing harshly, staring into his eyes.  
  
“I _knew_ I should never have allowed you to go see your precious former lover,” he whispered. “He’s confused you again, and made you assume that anyone who doesn’t support your notions of good is wrong.”  
  
“I don’t know how much of this is him,” Harry said simply. “I don’t know what I would have done if he hadn’t told me about that spell, or if you hadn’t told me about developing it yourself. It just—” He wiped at his eyes. He felt really tired. “I need some time and space to think about it, okay?”  
  
“But you won’t leave me behind the way you did him.”  
  
Harry looked helplessly at Malfoy. He wanted to say that he would, because Malfoy needed to calm down and get over him, and this was the best way. But then he wondered what in the world that would do to Malfoy’s confidence and obsession with Harry himself.  
  
And the fact of the matter was, he just didn’t have many other friends right now.  
  
“Think of it this way.” Malfoy moved a sliding step towards him. “It’s another thing that happened long before you became yourself, before you lost your memories. You can’t remember it anyway. Why feel guiltier for this than for the blackmail or the working with Kelvin that you already decided you wouldn’t feel guilty for?”  
  
Harry shook his head. “Because I was clinging to the last hope that there was something Old Harry was good at,” he said, glad that he’d found the words for something that might seem nearly pointless to Malfoy, but _did_ matter to Harry himself. “That he was really a good Auror, and he didn’t do things that would get in the way of that. But now I know even that was a lie. I—I wasn’t only a _horrible_ person, I was an _incompetent_ one!”  
  
Malfoy paused. Then he nodded and slowly leaned back. “I can see how that would be different. It’s the way I would feel if I lost my memories and found out that my former self had been relying on someone else to brew his potions.”  
  
“Good,” said Harry, and something soft and dark moved over him. “Then—you understand why I need to go to the Leaky Cauldron right now?”  
  
“I understand why you want to. Needing is a different thing.”  
  
Harry bit the inside of his cheek. “All right. But you understand.”  
  
“Yes.” Malfoy seemed to pull up a sigh from within the depths of himself. “And I think the last thing you _need_ is someone questioning your decisions and pulling at you to do something else. The way _they_ did.”  
  
Harry didn’t know who he was specifically referring to, and he decided he didn’t care. He nodded. “Thanks, Malfoy. You’re right. That—helps a lot.” He turned and walked more steadily towards the front door.  
  
The odd, grey-eyed house-elf was waiting to escort him out. Harry looked at him, then back at Malfoy, who had come into the entrance hall and was standing and watching Harry with that devouring way he had.  
  
“You’re free to come back whenever you want,” Malfoy said.  
  
“I know that.”  
  
“I’m not the one who thinks it would be a good idea if you went away.”  
  
“I know that, too.”  
  
Malfoy watched him for one more moment, then shook his head and spoke words that sounded as if they were ripped from him. “Is it just that I didn’t tell you? Or do you think there’s something especially evil about a spell that mimics the Imperius Curse that you don’t think is that evil about the other things you did?”  
  
“That you didn’t tell me.” Harry gave a ragged sigh when he saw the way Malfoy looked at him, and added, “I know other things were worse. But right now, they don’t feel that way. I think—I think this was the last scrap of hope I had for Old Harry. And I think I’ll probably come back soon,” he added, as he turned to the door. “Just, right now, I can’t stay here. You’ve given me a lot of support. But I need to stand on my own for a while and just _think_. I need private space and time in which to do that.”  
  
Malfoy crossed the distance to him. Harry stared him in the eye. Malfoy didn’t fling his arms around Harry and command him to stay the way Harry thought he must be longing to do.  
  
Instead, he simply held out a stiff arm, nodded a little, and then muttered, “Come back whenever you want. I won’t tell you what to think.”  
  
Harry nodded to his—friend, lover, comrade, none of them felt right—to Malfoy, and then stepped out the door. The house-elf bowed to him, and Harry looked from him to Malfoy.  
  
 _Their eyes really are the_ exact _same shade of grey._  
  
Harry pushed any disquieting thoughts about that away and trudged to the outer grounds to Apparate. No matter what Malfoy had done to or with his house-elf, Harry suspected it wasn’t Old Harry’s fault, which at the moment made it rather low-priority.  
  
Other things were much higher priority. Like how the hell he would support himself now.  
  
And who he would stand with.  
  
 _I have to get my head in order._


	29. Internal Conversations

Harry ended up sleeping late the next morning, curled into himself in the midst of a bed that seemed too large. Rationally, he knew when he opened his eyes, it was a lot smaller than the one he’d shared in the Manor with Malfoy, but—  
  
It felt that way.  
  
The room at the Leaky Cauldron was small and quiet. Tom had given him a cautious look when Harry came in and asked for a room, as if he assumed that Dark wizards or Death Eaters were about to descend on him if he granted Harry’s request. But he’d finally nodded and handed the key over after whatever acceptable amount of time for him had passed.  
  
Harry looked at the change of clothes he’d brought and thought about going to take a shower. Or a bath. It had been ten years, or longer, since he had any memories here. Maybe they had new bathrooms.  
  
In the end, though, he’d cast a Cleaning Charm on himself that stung his teeth with the taste of mint and left his hair ruffled and sticking up on end with the strands softly rustling. Harry sighed, forced his hair flat again, and stretched several times.   
  
He had needed the sleep. After all the revelations of yesterday, he’d needed _some_ emotional distance from them.  
  
But he needed to think now.  
  
Harry half-closed his eyes. Did he want a duelist’s career, or anything else that might end up with someone taking the Elder Wand away from him?  
  
 _No._ He’d only leaped at the idea in the first place because it had sounded sensible, and Harry wanted anything that sounded sensible. He wanted to have a place in the world again, a job that would pay him, colleagues who would look at him as if he was just someone who worked there and not anything special—  
  
But if he had a business training people in dueling skills, everyone who came there would expect to see something special. He would be trading on his reputation in the first place, offering people a chance to train with _Harry Potter,_ not just train.  
  
Harry sighed. All right, that was out, then. And even if he had wanted to go back and be an Auror, he didn’t think he could, with no memory of his training and the same problem with the Elder Wand going to someone else if they defeated him.  
  
What, then?  
  
Harry gave a faint smile then, as another thought occurred to him.  
  
 _I don’t remember what I learned for my NEWT’s any more than I remember what I did in Auror training. Maybe there’s something else I would have liked to study without the constant pressure of saving the world. And maybe there_ is _something I liked that I didn’t dare follow up on, because Old Harry had already decided that he needed to sacrifice everything to appearing normal._  
  
So the sensible thing to do was take classes, or get private tutoring, and see what he liked. Maybe Arithmancy? Something to do with runes?  
  
Something to do with magical creatures, even. What Harry had learned from Hagrid’s lessons and Professor Grubbly-Plank’s, he’d enjoyed, although at the time he hadn’t thought of making a career out of it.  
  
Harry felt his smile come back stronger. It wasn’t a permanent solution, but maybe he didn’t need to find a permanent solution this early. It had taken years for Old Harry to turn into an Auror, along with an unpleasant idiot.  
  
If Harry could subdue the impulse to jump into something right away, if he could live until he had a greater plan in mind, then it would be better. Harry didn’t want to repeat Old Harry’s mistakes. He didn’t want to get into anything where people would expect him to have a certain “standard” rather than doing what he wanted to.  
  
For now, he would go to Flourish and Blotts and pick up some books in each of the subjects he didn’t remember well, plus more advanced textbooks in the subjects he _did_ remember, like Transfiguration and Defense. And he would get a stack of parchment and multiple quills and inkwells.  
  
He had letters to write.  
  
*  
  
 _Dear Ron and Hermione,_  
  
 _I wanted to tell you that I left Malfoy’s house. We had a fight about something he hadn’t told me, and I didn’t want to stay there for the moment. But this is to get my head together. I’m not deciding that he’s a horrible person and I’m leaving him permanently._  
  
Harry sprawled in the middle of the bed in the Leaky Cauldron, nibbling on his quill. Then he stopped and spat a little. He had to admit, when he thought about what he was doing instead of just biting, it tasted horrible.  
  
What else would his friends want to know? Harry thought of it a second later and wrote it down.  
  
 _I’m physically all right. It just struck me all at once, these things I don’t know, these secrets my old self kept. Having some time by myself to sort out my thoughts was essential._  
  
Then Harry lay there and stared at the ceiling for a little while more, trying to decide if he should tell them about Rob or not.   
  
_No more secrets,_ he decided, and wrote a brief summary of what Rob had told him and what Malfoy had admitted to. When that was done, he folded up the letter without looking at it and tucked it away on the table beside the bed. He had others to write, and he didn’t want to second-guess himself and keep changing the letter, when it said everything he wanted it to just the way it was.  
  
But in the meantime, he had some books to read.  
  
*  
  
“Hello, Harry Potter.”  
  
Harry felt as though someone had stabbed a needle into his ear when he heard that voice. He turned around and stared at the woman who stood behind the table, giving him as calm a smile as though they were old friends. And then she moved over and _sat down_ on the other side of the table without his permission!  
  
“I was really wondering if I would get the pleasure of interviewing you,” Rita Skeeter said musingly, taking out the bright green quill he remembered and a long scroll of parchment and putting them beside her on the table. “And then you showed up in the Leaky Cauldron at the same time as me! Almost as if you were looking for someone to tell your story.” She folded her arms in front of her and waited.  
  
“If I was looking for someone to tell my story,” Harry said coldly, and moved his plate and mug further away from her, “it certainly wouldn’t be you.”  
  
“But I’m not the woman you remember. We made some peace in the last few years, and I helped you with certain _stories_.”  
  
From the way Skeeter looked at him, Harry suspected she knew part or all of his blackmailing history. Well, Old Harry’s blackmailing history. That didn’t make Harry any more inclined to trust her. He only shook his head and turned back to his breakfast.  
  
To his amazement, Skeeter sat there for a few minutes before she tried to interrogate him again. She’d at least gained patience, Harry thought, sneaking a look at her, along with some lines in her face.  
  
“You are different,” she said musingly. “The last time I tried to talk to you, you ended up stalking away from me before I finished a sentence. And now, you think you can make me go away by ignoring me.” She leaned back and shook her head. “You have the patience to actually ignore me, too. I’m impressed. The Harry Potter I came to know was always impatient, as if he thought one of his own secrets was hunting him down.”  
  
 _Remember that she may know less than she pretends to._ That was one trick Harry hadn’t forgotten when he woke up, because he’d known it before he ever went into Auror training. Hell, sometimes he had used it on the Dursleys, hinting that he knew some terrible secret Aunt Petunia was trying to keep from the neighbors to coax him into giving her more food.  
  
But he still ate until his plate was empty, and then started to stand up.  
  
“Aren’t you interested in counteracting the rumors with some of your own?” Skeeter followed him to the brick wall that led into Diagon Alley. Harry could sense Tom’s glance at his back, and shook his head a little. It would serve as an answer for both of them.  
  
“At least you admit it would be rumors, and not the truth, if you wrote it,” Harry told her dryly, and opened the wall.  
  
Skeeter followed him outside. Harry ignored her as he turned towards the Owl Emporium. He had made some decisions, and they included getting a new owl so he actually had a reliable means of postal delivery.  
  
“I didn’t say that. But I do think that most people who read my stories will think that anything is rumors. They’ll pick the ones they like the best to believe. The least you could do is offer them a choice, and then maybe they would pick the ones favorable to you.”  
  
Harry snorted a little, noting that most of the people who turned to stare were looking at Skeeter and not him. He wondered if that was because no one expected to see him here, or maybe because Old Harry had gone around with an entourage, and its absence was confusing people. “They’ll never pick the ones most favorable to me. You’d poison them against me.”  
  
“Why should I?” Skeeter put her hand flat over her heart.  
  
“Because something like that sells more papers than simply reporting the truth.”  
  
Skeeter smiled. “You have a much better grasp of politics than you used to. But this time, I _am_ offering you a sincere deal. It’s a limited-time offer, so you might as well take me up on it and pay the price later.”  
  
“What would the price be?”  
  
Skeeter’s smile grew, and Harry silently cursed himself. He shouldn’t have made it sound as though paying it was even an option. He turned firmly into the Owl Emporium, but Skeeter still followed him.  
  
“Can I help you?” the shopkeeper began, and then stopped and gasped when he got a good look at Harry’s face.  
  
“Not for now,” said Harry, with a smile that he hoped would freeze Skeeter out. She seemed immune to it, alas, but the shopkeeper shrank away from him. “I’m looking for a bird, but I’d like to choose my own.”  
  
“O-of course, sir.”  
  
Harry wanted to pause and stare at the shopkeeper, wondering if Old Harry had threatened even him. But that would probably only frighten the man more, so instead, he turned and started studying the owls on their perches. He deliberately ignored the snowy owls, even though he thought they were the most beautiful.  
  
He wanted to begin anew. Old Harry had been so grief-stricken over Hedwig’s passing that he hadn’t ever bought a new owl, apparently. Harry could respect that, but he wasn’t going to be Old Harry _or_ his younger self. He would have a new bird, but not a snowy.  
  
“The price would depend on what you could pay,” Skeeter murmured, easing up beside him. “I deal more in information than other currencies, I’m sure you know that. And I don’t have that much use for Galleons. The book I wrote on Dumbledore brought me more than I could easily use.”  
  
Harry froze for a second, because her stupid book on Dumbledore felt much more recent than it really was. Then he shook his head and studied the barn owl in front of him. It was a handsome bird, brown with golden eyes, but it turned its head away, and Harry moved onto the next.  
  
“If you have enough money, I’m surprised you returned to being a reporter,” he threw over his shoulder.  
  
“Stories are in the _blood_ ,” Skeeter said, and then she gave a rustling little laugh and added, “And praise for my book is rare now that it’s been out for a decade. If I want people to keep talking about my writing, I need to bring out new stories.”  
  
Harry said nothing. That he could understand her, and she seemed both calmer and more reasonable than she ever had, disturbed him.  
  
All of the adult barn owls shivered and turned away from him. Harry was about to give up and move towards the back of the shop, which held the owlets, when he heard a hungry screech from above him.  
  
When Harry looked up, the eagle-owl on the high perch launched itself at him.  
  
Harry had already lifted his wand when he noticed the chain around the owl’s foot, binding it to the perch. And the owl seemed to know it was there, too. At least, it didn’t fall forwards and hang helplessly the way Harry thought other birds might. It landed on the empty perch beside it, straining the chain to its full extent, and snapped its beak at him. Its wings were enormous, bigger than the bloody thing had any right to be, including the shadow they cast. The owl hunched, and Harry could see the bloody hatred in its eyes.  
  
“Excuse me, sir,” said the shopkeeper, and stepped carefully around Harry to approach the eagle-owl. “That’s just Royal. He’s…temperamental.”  
  
“Does he hate everyone who comes in?” Harry couldn’t see the man selling many owls if he got frightened customers all the time.  
  
“No.” The shopkeeper glanced at him nervously out of a thicket of beard and moustache. He was trying to coax Royal back onto the high perch, but evidently Royal didn’t want to go. “Most of the time, he only turns his head away and pretends that he didn’t see them at all. That’s as much attention as I’ve seen him give anyone, actually. Ever.”  
  
“Clearly,” said Skeeter, “this is meant to be your owl, Mr. Potter. I’m so glad I could help you discover him.”  
  
Harry shook his head a little. “He looks like he wants to eat me, not be my owl.”  
  
The shopkeeper turned around and studied him. “No offense, but this is probably cordial by his standards, Mr. Potter.”  
  
Harry said nothing, but looked steadily into the black eagle-owl’s eyes. They were a blazing orange, so different from Hedwig’s that they made him smile a little. Royal seemed to see the smile and go madder. His wings hammered at the air as he lunged forwards against the chain.  
  
Harry did something that he couldn’t explain afterwards, although more than one person asked him when he described it. He raised the Elder Wand and murmured “ _Frango_ ” at the chain.   
  
It broke with a sound that made the shopkeeper duck and yelp. Royal soared straight at Harry, his beak open and his wings beating as though he was going to hit Harry to death instead of peck his eyes out.  
  
Harry stood there and watched him come. His emotions danced around in his head, wild things that hurt his temples with the force of their throbbing. If he could have put them into words, it would be something like: _He might as well do what he wants with me. Fate and time already have._  
  
But Royal didn’t beat him to death or peck his eyes out. Instead, he landed on Harry’s shoulder, with a casual flex of his feet that sent blood spurting up under Harry’s robes, and stared into Harry’s eyes.  
  
Harry had to tilt his head back to allow room for Royal on his shoulder and meet the owl’s eyes both at once. Royal snapped his beak once and then turned and delicately preened a feather in his wing. He might have decided that Harry was going to be his next perch, and nothing more important than that. The only sign he gave otherwise was when the shopkeeper approached him with a warily lifted arm, and he turned his head back and brought his beak down on air with a decisive _snap_.  
  
“Your bird,” said Skeeter, but she sounded a little dazed.  
  
“Yes,” said Harry slowly. He wasn’t the boy he had been at Hogwarts, with a snowy owl who understood his every word and nibbled his ears in affection. He wasn’t Old Harry, with his steadfast refusal to get an owl. He was someone else. “My bird.”  
  
Royal brought his head down and eyed Harry in what seemed to be meditative silence. Then he turned to preen a feather again.  
  
 _And that,_ Harry thought, carefully healing the wounds Royal had caused in his shoulder with the Elder Wand and turning to pay for a cage and owl treats, _is as much acknowledgement as I’m going to get._  
  



	30. Frantic Letters

Harry smiled when the barn owl winged through his window at the Leaky Cauldron, bearing a letter he could already see had Ron’s big, loopy writing on the outside. He started to hold out his hand as the owl settled on the table next to his bed--  
  
And suddenly Royal was there, diving down with a clack of his beak that sounded like an explosion as he landed in front of the other owl, his feet ripping a small chunk of wood from the edge of the table. The barn owl cowered. Royal snapped his beak again and stalked up and down in front of it, his tail ruffled out.  
  
“Yes, you’re huge and the best owl ever,” said Harry, with a little roll of his eyes, as he determinedly reached around Royal to take the letter. “And I won’t ever use any owl for my return post but you. That doesn’t mean you can intercept letters that other people send to me and use them to your own advantage, you know.”  
  
Royal caught Harry’s wrist in his beak.  
  
Harry paused and eyed him speculatively. Royal looked back at him with bright eyes. Already, even though he wasn’t pressing down, a little rill of blood ran down the side of Harry’s arm from where his beak rested.  
  
“You _can’t_ intercept all of them,” Harry explained, in a voice that he thought was weirdly calm. Then again, he also thought he knew exactly how to deal with Royal, as if it was an instinct. “Sometimes they’ll come when you’re asleep, and what are you going to do then? Exhaust yourself flying up and down in front of the inn, or wherever I am, trying to catch the other owls? Eventually that would result in you not being ready when I really need you to carry letters.”  
  
Royal seemed to consider this. He had the most intelligent look in his eyes that Harry had seen from any owl since Hedwig.  
  
 _Not that I_ remember _many owls since Hedwig._ Harry swallowed to cut back on his sense of loss, and waited, not moving his hand or his eyes.  
  
Finally, Royal let go of Harry’s hand. Harry nodded and sighed, and watched as Royal stalked back and forth on the table, his feathers ruffled all over his shoulders and breast. The barn owl stared as if mesmerized, then took flight and landed hastily on the perch in the corner.  
  
Harry thought about trying to toss an owl treat to the poor thing, but he doubted it would work. Likewise, he didn’t dare do anything other than mutter a minor charm at the blood flowing down his wrist so it would heal. And finally, he got to open his letter.  
  
 _Dear Harry,_  
  
 _I think you made the right decision leaving Malfoy’s place, although now Hermione is muttering about you not having someone to take care of you. But who was really taking care of who at Malfoy’s place? I think he wanted you to heal whatever wounds he had in his soul from Old Harry._  
  
Harry raised an eyebrow. That was strangely perceptive of Ron. Maybe the time that they’d spent away from each other was helping Ron, too.  
  
 _Or maybe he was always this way and I just don’t remember it because it happened in the last ten years._  
  
Ron’s letter continued, _I think you ought to come to our house, but as long as you’re not with Malfoy, it’s all right. And bad luck about Rob, but I think you need to stay away from him, too. In the meantime, could you write something concrete so Hermione will stop proposing to me what we ought to do about you? And write to Ginny. I think she_ needs _to hear from you._  
  
Harry smiled. It would be pure pleasure to write to Hermione about deciding to study more, since she would probably send him actual books and that way he wouldn’t have to spend time looking up the good ones.  
  
It would be far from a pleasure to write to Ginny, but Harry thought Ron was right. She did need to read something from him, if only to know that he wouldn’t ever be coming back and she should cut her losses and choose someone else.  
  
 _I still wish I could have loved her the way I did--well, the way other people_ thought _Old Harry did._  
  
But since everyone had been wrong and Harry _hadn’t_ really loved her, it was best to let it go and move on.  
  
 _And at least the next people I love can be on my own initiative,_ Harry thought, as he reached for the parchment and the ink again. Royal hopped up and down slightly, and then turned around and clacked his beak at the other owl, who promptly fled out the window. _I can choose who I love instead of being conned into it._  
  
Royal sidled up to Harry. Harry eyed him cautiously, not wanting the owl to bite him again. The bleeding on his wrist from the first time had barely stopped.  
  
Royal leaned his head against Harry’s wrist instead and gave a soft crooning hum that seemed to begin in the table underneath him and then go up to the edge of his beak, until it rang gently in Harry’s bones.  
  
“Well, all right,” Harry told him, and petted his breast feathers. Royal closed his eyes and sat there until Harry began to write the letter for Ginny. Then he turned and flew over to the perch where the other owl had been. He began to sidle slowly back and forth, turning a fastidious foot in place again and again, until he apparently felt that he’d got rid of all traces of the other bird. Then he crouched and regurgitated a pellet.  
  
“You’re also a rude owl,” Harry told him, as he thought about how he should write the second paragraph. “Hedwig never did that.” For an instant, emotion trembled in his throat, but only one moment, and then he blinked the beginning tears away.  
  
Royal closed his eyes and sat there, large and impressive. Harry chuckled a little and started writing again.  
  
*  
  
 _Dear Ginny_ ,  
  
 _Ron suggested I write to you, and the more I think about it, the more I think that’s best._  
  
 _I really wish I could have known you for the last ten years as myself. Or that Old Harry had never lied to you and loved you the way you deserve to be loved. From what I could see in the Pensieve memories, he should have been able to trust you with_ anything, _even past love affairs or what he was doing in the Ministry and by blackmailing people. You would never have agreed with him, but you would have seen that he got help._  
  
 _I think the main reason he went as far as he did was that he didn’t trust anybody. By the time he started thinking about stopping, he was convinced that everyone would reject him for what he had already done, and he couldn’t face that._  
  
 _No one should have to deal with that. But also, no one should have to deal with as many deceptions about it as you did._  
  
 _I’m asking you to move on and find someone else to love. That’s a harsh thing to write, and I’m sorry. If you want more apologies from me, please tell me, and I’ll be happy to give them._  
  
 _But I don’t think I could ever recover what we had—which wasn’t anything if I think of Old Harry as a different person, and was something mostly deceptive if I think of him as a lost part of myself. You_ should _have had better. I wish I could have known you. I would come back to you and ask you to try again with me if I thought there was anything we could recover._  
  
 _I’m sorry, but I think it’s too tainted._  
  
 _Please write back to me. If you just want to let me know you received this letter, that’s fine. My owl will stay and wait for a reply. He’s insistent about that._  
  
 _I loved you once, Ginny. I’m sorry I couldn’t love you more._  
  
 _Harry._  
  
*  
  
Royal had hardly taken off with that letter when _another_ owl appeared, swooping in through the window and looking around with its wings spread. Harry held back a chuckle to spare the poor thing’s feelings. Apparently owls told each other about bad news like Royal the instant they knew it.  
  
Harry wondered, as he took the letter, if it would be from Ginny. Maybe Ron had suggested to both of them that they write to each other, and she had simply sent hers first.  
  
But when Harry saw the writing on the outside of the envelope, he wanted to groan and toss it into the fire. This was yet another message from Rob, and he was going to plead and beg for another chance, Harry was almost sure.  
  
Even if he had wanted to give Rob another chance, Harry didn’t think it would be wise. They weren’t _good_ for each other. And Rob loved someone who had never existed, either way. Harry wasn’t the fantasy he had built for himself any more than he was Old Harry.  
  
In the end, Harry chose to read the bloody thing, if only because Rob would probably send another letter if he didn’t, and then another and another and another, until Harry had to pay for all the owls that Royal would probably kill.  
  
*  
  
 _Dearest Harry,_  
  
 _I understand, now, why you cast that spell on me. And from your perspective, which the spell forced me to understand, I know perfectly why you would never want to see me again._  
  
 _But—forgive me—having to understand you that way just makes me want you more. You have a maturity that you didn’t have in either of your previous incarnations. You’re a different person. I understand that. But I’m a different person after seeing through your eyes, too._  
  
 _Give me one more chance to prove myself. Let’s meet anywhere you choose. I’ll lay anything on the table that you want to know. I’ll tell you more about my affair with Old Harry. (It was just an affair, not a love affair. I see that now). Or if you want to ask me more normal questions instead, that’s fine. It’s up to you._  
  
 _Love,_  
 _Rob._  
  
*  
  
Harry leaned back when he was done, and groaned. Because he had essentially put Rob in the same position that Malfoy was in, and it was all Harry’s own fault.  
  
Malfoy had learned all about Harry from taking that potion. He probably knew more about Old Harry than Harry himself did. And Rob had learned a lot about him from that spell he’d cast.  
  
Which meant…  
  
 _If I gave Malfoy the chance to get close to me because he supposedly understood me so well, what justification can I come up with for not giving Rob the same chance? I should go and listen to him, the same way I listened to Malfoy. Hell, he’s even being more open and accepting and less obsessive about me than Malfoy is. He told me we could meet wherever I want instead of inviting me to live in his house._  
  
But Harry had been the one who chose to take Malfoy up on his offer of sanctuary. Malfoy couldn’t have forced Harry to come to the Manor if Harry had decided he would rather stay with Ron and Hermione instead.  
  
And Harry wanted, more than he had wanted anything except his old memories, not to go anywhere with Rob.  
  
Royal flew through the window then, with a letter firmly clutched in his beak. Harry grabbed it and tore it open. At this point, he would actually like to read about Ginny blaming him, because it would distract him from his dilemma with Rob and Malfoy.  
  
The parchment said simply, in Ginny’s handwriting that felt more achingly familiar than it really was, _I received your letter._  
  
And that was that. Harry might get more from her later, he knew, but not right now. He put the parchment aside and tried not to feel numb.  
  
Ginny was out of his life, as a distraction and someone he could depend on. He had to make the decisions about Rob and Malfoy on his own.  
  
Harry got up and paced slowly back and forth across the room. Royal stared at him as if to say that he did not approve of this behavior, and then tucked his beak into his feathers.  
  
On the one hand, the choice should be simple. Rob hadn’t committed any crimes that Harry knew of. Malfoy had, and had willingly helped Harry hide and commit others. Rob didn’t reek of Dark magic. He had loved—well, he’d _once_ said that he had loved Old Harry. Maybe even a version of Old Harry that hadn’t been as bad as he got later.  
  
And if Rob was like Malfoy in some ways, he was even more like Ginny. They had both been innocent people who had loved a man who was horrible under the surface. Why punish Rob for that by ignoring him, any more than Harry had wanted to punish Ginny? He could feel sorry for her. Why not Rob?  
  
Then Harry paused and blinked at Royal. Royal popped his head up again, but kept his beak resting on his feathers, as if to say that he was only giving Harry a few seconds to be interesting before he tucked it away.  
  
“Who’s going to know if I’m not _fair_ to everyone?” Harry whispered. “Only me. And you,” he added, as Royal turned his head a little to the side. “But not Rob. Not Ginny. Not Ron and Hermione. Not even Malfoy. It’s up to me to be as fair as I want.”  
  
He completed another turn around the room, and continued speaking aloud. He had enough spells on the room that he thought it unlikely someone could eavesdrop. And it comforted him to say this aloud. It made the words feel more genuine.  
  
“I’m not even being fair to the people Old Harry hurt, if you want to put it that way. I decided deliberately not to. Why am I having such problems with Rob?”  
  
Royal fluffed his feathers out as far as they would go, which Harry thought was his way of saying, “I have no idea.”  
  
“Exactly.” Harry nodded to him and paced a little faster. His head whirred like the inside of a typhoon. “I don’t have to be sympathetic to him or date him just because he wants to. Or because he’s a little like Ginny and Malfoy. I want to give Malfoy another chance because I want to. I want to apologize to Ginny because I want to. I want to avoid Rob because—”  
  
Royal clacked his beak gently, as if to say that _he_ didn’t want to listen to that word anymore. Harry chuckled and nodded.  
  
But he stood there and felt the revelation spread around him as if it was a dazzling light. Except this light illuminated many parts of the universe.   
  
He didn’t owe anyone his life, or his innocence, or the chance to date him. If Malfoy got too insistent, then Harry would walk away from him. If he was giving Malfoy an unfair chance because he remembered him from Hogwarts while Rob was a complete stranger, that was his _choice_.  
  
He would write back to Rob. But it would be a letter of refusal. And then he would write to Ron and Hermione, and even Malfoy, if he wanted to.  
  
Harry glanced at the books that stood piled on one corner of the table, and smiled, a smile that seemed to illuminate as much, in its own way.  
  
Then he would get on with his _real_ life.


	31. Choosing His Path

“You’re more excited about this than anything I’ve seen you study in _years_ ,” Hermione said, staring at him. Then she put her hand over her mouth. “Sorry.”  
  
Harry grinned at her and bent down to pick up Rose, who was staring at him as if trying to figure out whether this was the Uncle Harry who recognized her or not. “It’s all right. We need to acknowledge that you remember things I don’t. I think that’s what drove Ginny and me apart from each other.”  
  
“I thought what drove you apart was the lies.”  
  
Harry turned to Ron. He sat with his arms folded and his legs kicked up on a stool in front of him. Harry looked at him calmly. He knew Ron had more than just the crimes against the Aurors to hold against Harry. There were also all the ways he’d pretended to love Ginny.  
  
“Those, too.” Harry shifted his hold on Rose, and wondered absently if it was possible his body remembered things his mind didn’t. He certainly seemed to know how to hold a little girl. “I couldn’t remember why Old Harry loved her. I couldn’t remember what I’d told her and I hadn’t, and then there were all those secrets I instinctively hid from her when I started finding them scattered around the house.”  
  
“Yeah. _That,_ I don’t understand.” Ron sat up and let his feet thump to the floor, ignoring the looks Harry was sure Hermione was giving him. “Why didn’t you go to Ginny right away, if you loved her so much?”  
  
“Because I must not have loved her that much,” Harry said, shaking his head. He shifted a little when Ron started to speak again. “Hear me out.”  
  
Harry thought Ron was doing it more as a favor to Hermione than him, based on the warning look she gave Ron, but Ron grunted and made a little motion with one hand.  
  
“Thank you,” said Harry. “I know you don’t want to hear this, Ron, but I don’t think I was ever that in love with Ginny. I broke up with her before the end of the war, and then it was five years before Old Harry decided to date her. Even then, it was mostly because he wanted a ‘normal’ life. He thought it would make her happy, and you and Hermione happy. It wasn’t because he wanted her more than anything else.”  
  
Ron’s face had turned so pale that Harry was glad he was sitting down. “I—that’s _mental_ , mate.”  
  
“I think Old Harry went crazy a long time ago.”  
  
“But he must have known—he must have known we wouldn’t want that for him.”  
  
Harry licked his lips. This was the part where he had to tread carefully, especially because he didn’t have a lot of the memories that would make it make sense for his friends. “I think he thought you did. I mean, you obviously hoped he would marry Ginny and live happily ever after. And Ginny did, too. She wouldn’t have agreed to go out with him otherwise.”  
  
“She thought it was romantic. I mean—the way he turned around and told her that he’d taken forever to see how important she was to him, but there she was, waiting for him.”  
  
 _Malfoy would think that was pathetic._  
  
But what Malfoy would think could have no place in this discussion. Harry held Ron’s eyes, and said simply, “But he could have turned around and seen how wonderful she was at any time in the past five years. I think she _is_ wonderful. I also think that he thought he was satisfying everyone’s expectations in dating her, more than his own.”  
  
“You think she’s wonderful, but he was only doing it to please us.”  
  
Harry shrugged. “ _I_ think she’s wonderful. I can’t tell you exactly what Old Harry thought.”  
  
“Funny.” Ron stabbed him with a glance. “For a minute, it sounded as though you were trying.”  
  
“All right. All _right_.” Harry closed his eyes. “I can tell you what I think. But this is only what I think. It isn’t guaranteed to be right. I don’t think I can ever tell you for _sure_ what went through his head. Based on what I’ve found out, though, I’m starting to understand him more than I did.”  
  
Ron and Hermione stayed silent. Rose squirmed, and Harry put her on the floor so she could go back to playing. Harry didn’t blame her at all for being bored with the adult conversation.  
  
He would have run away if he could. But he didn’t think anything Old Harry had done so persistently was a good idea.  
  
“I think,” Harry began at last, “that Old Harry was frightened by these impulses he had in himself. To use Dark spells, to use his power to hurt other people. He started out thinking he would only hurt Dark wizards, or blackmail them, and that was all right, wasn’t it? And then it slid into: I can blackmail good people and use potions on them, because, well, it won’t hurt them permanently, and maybe they did something wrong even if not as wrong as Dark wizards like Kelvin.”  
  
They were tense and still, listening. Harry opened his eyes, but found that he couldn’t look at his friends. He had to stare into the fire. The meaningless shapes the flames made were still more soothing than the silence in his friends’ faces.  
  
“And it turned into,” Harry whispered, “him not being able to face the consequences of his own actions. He couldn’t bear to have someone bring them up. He couldn’t bear to think about it. He couldn’t bear to have someone find out. So he lied more and more, and at the same time he tried to convince himself he was a _good_ person by, oh, doing things like dating Ginny. Look at him doing all the things that a good person is supposed to do. He must be good if he did that. And if it kept suspicion off him, all the better.”  
  
“Like he could be the hero everyone wanted him to be if he pushed the mask hard enough into his face,” Hermione whispered.  
  
Harry gave her a grateful smile for phrasing it like that. “Exactly. Even though the mask was only a thing he had made up anyway.”  
  
“We _never_ asked him to act like that,” said Hermione. She stretched out a hand to Harry, but didn’t get up from the couch where she sat. “We never—he made it up. All of it, including the idea that it was better for him if he never faltered or failed in being a proper hero. Sure, he smiled all the time, but I thought that was because what his personality had naturally turned into.”  
  
 _She’s calling Old Harry “him.” Not “you.” I think she can accept that I’m a different person, now._  
  
“I’m not blaming you,” Harry told her. “One of the reasons it’s hard to understand him is because he was surrounded by people who never demanded anything heroic of him. He simply assumed they did, and went from there.”  
  
“If we were,” said Ron brokenly, and Harry turned to look at him. He was rubbing his forehead with one hand. “If we were really his friends,” Ron finally whispered, “we should have noticed.”  
  
“How could you, when he was lying all the time, and would have lied even if you’d asked him directly?” Harry shook his head. “You believed him _because_ you were his friends. Working around his lies and refusing to believe him would have been more the action of an enemy.”  
  
“You know,” said Hermione thoughtfully, “I think I’m starting to understand why you’ve spent some time with Malfoy.”  
  
Harry thought about, and discarded, the idea of telling them the truth about the way Malfoy obsessed over him. “That could be,” he said, and then faced Hermione. “Now. I wanted to ask you about some books on Ancient Runes and Arithmancy.”  
  
The way Hermione’s face lit was worth everything, including having to go through the conversation in the first place and Ron’s pretend frustrated groan.  
  
*  
  
Harry drew his wand the minute he stepped into the Leaky Cauldron. He could see the pallor in Tom’s face, but more than that, there was someone in a dark, hooded cloak sitting in a chair visible from the door.  
  
The person stood up, though, and tossed the cloak back. Draco’s face shone as he stalked towards Harry and stared at him. The few other customers in the pub started whispering.  
  
“Can you _please_ come back to the Manor? I’ve spent the past few days thinking you’re going to die from someone trying to kill you here. It’s not safe.”  
  
Harry drew a slow breath and forced himself to ignore all the noisy speculation. No matter what he did, people would talk about him. The only weapon he had was in going past that moment, pushing into the one where he could make his own decisions.  
  
 _Remember that Old Harry did most of what he did to avoid the public. You can’t do the same thing._  
  
“I won’t come back yet. But I will invite you up to my room so we can discuss it.”  
  
Malfoy nodded once, and whirled towards the stairs. Harry followed him, and wondered for a moment whether Royal had come back from his latest delivery. Probably not, or he would have followed and found Harry at Ron and Hermione’s house.  
  
But perhaps Royal was simply too proud to do that. When Harry opened the door to his room, it was to see Malfoy shouting and ducking from the stab of mighty talons.  
  
Harry hid his smile and closed the door behind him. “Royal, enough,” he said, without raising his voice. “This is Draco Malfoy, a friend of mine. You carried a letter to him yesterday. Calm down.”  
  
Royal swung away from Draco and landed on Harry’s shoulder. Harry winced and reminded himself to actually _cast_ the charms that would toughen his skin and clothing there. Royal’s feet slipped in the blood even as he hooted threateningly at Draco and spread his wings so that one of them was behind Harry’s head, pulling it towards him.  
  
“That’s not an owl,” said Malfoy, staring at Harry as he drew his wand to begin casting healing charms on himself. “That’s a monster.”  
  
“No reason he can’t be both,” Harry said mildly, and nodded to Royal. Royal swung back to his perch, curling one talon up to his beak as if he wanted to lick off the blood.  
  
“Your _shoulder_.”  
  
Malfoy sounded horrified. Harry smiled a little and cast a healing charm of his own. “He didn’t mean to. Which is more than I could say for Kelvin or someone like him.”  
  
“Kelvin or someone _like_ him is the main reason I want you to come back to the Manor. You’ll be much safer behind its walls.”  
  
Harry shook his head a little. “I wouldn’t be safe from my own heart if I came back with you now.”  
  
Malfoy’s breathing seemed to stop. He moved a step forwards and then stopped. “You care about me that much.” He sounded a little dazed.  
  
“What I mean is that I don’t trust my own emotions around you,” Harry said with a sigh, but he could see where Malfoy had got his different interpretation. He glanced around the room, then pulled out a small loaf of sweet bread he’d bought that day in Diagon Alley and had been keeping for dinner. “Do you want something to eat?”  
  
“Not particularly. I think it would only distract me from the conversation I want to have.”  
  
Royal hooted warningly from his perch in the corner. Harry found himself closing his mouth and smiling instead of getting upset. “Just keep in mind that Royal might interfere if _I_ don’t want to have the conversation.”  
  
Malfoy gave a single stare at the owl, turning away before Royal could return it, and then focused on Harry. “Your letter wasn’t that coherent.”  
  
“It was as clear as I could make it. It isn’t my fault if you chose to misunderstand it.”  
  
“I didn’t _choose_ to misunderstand it.”  
  
“All right. So you misunderstood it anyway, and you want to find some way to blame that on me.”  
  
“Why are you being so antagonistic?”  
  
“Because you aren’t paying attention to _anything_ I said in that letter, including that I want to stay free for a while.”  
  
Malfoy opened his mouth, then stood up and began to wander around the room, trailing his hands over the books and trunks Harry had bought. Harry turned to watch him. It was nothing to him if Malfoy wanted to touch his things, although he hoped Malfoy was smart enough not to touch Royal.  
  
“Free of everything? Of any kind of commitment?”  
  
Malfoy asked that with his head turned away. Harry tipped a hand back and forth. “I wouldn’t mind having some. I reconciled with Ron and Hermione, as much as I can, today. We agreed that they won’t expect a miracle from me, and I’ll try to be my real self around them, instead of either Old Harry or the person he was trying to lie himself into being.”  
  
Malfoy whipped around so quickly Harry almost drew the Elder Wand. Then Malfoy stood still instead, and muttered, “You reconciled yourself with them and not me.”  
  
“They’re older friends,” Harry tried to explain. “The situation was more complex with you.”  
  
“Should I take that as a compliment or not?”  
  
“I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet what should happen with you.”  
  
“That’s _obvious_.”  
  
Harry rolled his eyes. “Then why did you come here to ask questions about it?”  
  
Malfoy shook his wrists for a second. Harry wondered if they hurt.  
  
“Because you’re important to me whether or not I want you to be,” Malfoy muttered, his head turned away. “And I think the least you can do is grant me the ability to decide what I want, as well as letting yourself decide what _you_ want.”  
  
“I know that,” said Harry. “I never intended to force my company on you or anything like that.”  
  
“I was more talking about the ability to see you. To spend time with you.” Malfoy turned on him a gaze that Harry supposed was meant to be melting, and maybe was if you were the right person. “To be your lover.”  
  
Harry rubbed his scar, even though it hadn’t hurt for ten years now, he supposed. “The problem with that is that I still have to straighten my _own_ head out. I’m not sure I’m good company for anyone right now.” He remembered the decision he had come to a few days earlier, and added, “And I don’t think that I’m going to visit or be with someone again just because they want me to.”  
  
Malfoy stood still. Harry watched him, thinking he would stalk through the door any second, a little surprised as seconds went past and he was still there.  
  
“The problem is,” Malfoy said at last, with a fragile little smile, “that just makes me want you more, when I hear something like that.”  
  
Harry grunted. “Really?”  
  
“Yes. It means that you’ve finally shed Old Harry’s obsessive need to care for what others thought of him.” Malfoy took a deep breath. “It means you’re a new person, a strong one, and I want you more because of that.”  
  
Oddly, Harry’s first thought was to wonder whether _Rob_ would want him more. But he dismissed it. Not only was he done visiting Rob, he was done comparing Malfoy to Rob and wondering who was better.  
  
“That’s a good sign,” Harry said. “But I still need to spend time by myself, studying, and I don’t think your idea of being a dueling instructor is going to work. I don’t want to do something ever again that could result in someone taking the Elder Wand from me, and I don’t really want a violent career.”  
  
“I would feel so much better if you were safe. If you won’t consider—getting together—with me, would you consider coming back to the Manor? That would give you the protection of the walls, but the place is so big you could stay in another wing without seeing me at all. Unless you wanted to.”  
  
Malfoy finished the words with a gulp, and Harry got a sense of how much it must have taken him to say that. He blinked at Malfoy once, then nodded. “I can see that you’d really like something like that.”  
  
“Does that mean you’re going to do it?”  
  
“How welcome would Royal be?” As Malfoy’s lips framed the word, Harry jerked his head at the owl. Royal looked up and hooted warningly again, staring at the back of Malfoy’s neck as if he was envisioning his talons going into it.  
  
“Welcome. He doesn’t have to see me, either. Anyone who comes with you or visits you is welcome. Even—Rob. Or Weasley and Granger.”  
  
Harry hesitated. He wanted to say that Malfoy was only doing this because of his obsession, or because Harry had denied him something he wanted. Maybe he would pursue anyone this obsessively if they had refused his hand and beat him in Quidditch and then teased him for years while working with him on Dark potions.  
  
 _The thing is,_ Harry realized after a moment as he looked into Malfoy’s eyes, _there is no one else like that._  
  
“If I can stay with Royal in another wing, and have my friends to visit, then I’ll accept. I’ll come and talk to you sometimes. Just not about being lovers or friends until my head is sorted out. And I don’t want to see Rob at all,” Harry added.  
  
Malfoy bowed his head and gave the ghost of a laugh, shaking his head a little. “Thank you,” he said. “That makes me happy.”  
  
And Harry discovered something about himself he hadn’t known, staring at those shining eyes: he liked making Draco Malfoy happy.   
  



	32. About Teddy

“I’ve more than done my part in leaving you alone, I think.”  
  
Harry looked up from his book. He was still in the wing of the Manor that Malfoy had told him would be his as long he wanted to stay there. It had its own library and study and bedrooms, so Harry had thought he was safe.  
  
But here Malfoy was, strolling into the library as if he owned it—well, technically he did, but the _point_ was that he’d agreed to leave Harry _alone_ here—and sitting down across from Harry, clearing his throat as he stared expectantly at him.  
  
“You have,” Harry finally said. “But that means you can go on leaving me alone until I ask to see you. I think that was the bargain.”  
  
“I’d like to make a better one.”  
  
“Of course you would. I’m not ready to abandon the original one.”  
  
Harry turned back to his book. Malfoy’s library, or his for right now, held even more books on Arithmancy and Ancient Runes than Hermione had lent him. Harry was working his way slowly through a book that they apparently used in third year at Hogwarts. It made him feel stupid and homesick at the same time. If he closed his eyes and only listened to the fire, it was easy to imagine he was back in the Gryffindor common room.  
  
Admittedly, it would have been one of the rare pauses without Ron talking or Hermione flipping a page of her book or someone else laughing at a game of Exploding Snap. But it still felt like home.  
  
“What are you thinking about?”  
  
“Hogwarts,” Harry answered truthfully, before he remembered who he was talking to. He leaned back and scowled at Malfoy a little. “If you try to take advantage of that somehow, then I’ll curse you. I’ll add some Runes to it, too.”  
  
Malfoy frowned. “You don’t know enough runes to add them well to a curse.”  
  
“Exactly. Just imagine how much more powerful it would be to be cursed by someone who doesn’t know what he’s doing, and how the runes would probably be impossible to undo because anyone who tried would work by the rules.”  
  
Malfoy paused. Then he said, “You seem younger, somehow. Like reading these books is causing you go back in time to the days when you had homework.”  
  
“I wish I could be back in those days,” Harry whispered, and then buried his head in his book again so Malfoy wouldn’t see his eyes. Nothing they’d shared so far let Harry think that Malfoy would handle him _about to cry_ with any tact or sensitivity. “I _wish_ I’d opened my eyes after a long sleep, the way I thought I had at first when I woke up in St. Mungo’s and saw Hermione, and it was tomorrow.”  
  
“Tomorrow?” Malfoy echoed.  
  
“The day I thought I was waking up to,” Harry explained dully. He drew in a breath, and the stupid temptation to cry disappeared. “The day when I was going to start arranging things and helping people after the war. The day I thought I was going to return your wand.”  
  
Malfoy sagged back in the chair as if Harry had hit him, which was more the way Harry had thought _he_ would feel after finding out the truth about the way Old Harry had really returned Malfoy’s wand. “Oh,” he whispered.  
  
Harry nodded. “I would give a lot to live those years over. To do different things, to tell people the truth about me, to convince myself that I didn’t need to care so much about what the public thought of me.”  
  
Malfoy sat still. Then he said, “There are potions that could help with that.”  
  
“But I would never ask you for them,” Harry pointed out. “Because I did sort of get that second chance. I have the ability to face people down now and fight them if I have to—the ones like Kelvin, I mean. The Ministry might not even prosecute me for Old Harry’s crimes. I have the ability to live free of constant fear.”  
  
Malfoy looked away with a faint frown. Harry went back to reading. He could see some of the ways that Arithmancy equations could be expanded to include runes, or he thought he could, but it was still hard to be sure, and the book didn’t explain much about it. The author was patting him on the head and reassuring him that he would learn all about the nice runes later in Ancient Runes class, Harry realized with a roll of his eyes.  
  
“Harry?”  
  
“Yes?” Harry looked up again and tried not to sound dismissive. He _really_ wanted to get back to reading, but he also didn’t want Malfoy to feel as if Harry was hostile to him.  
  
Malfoy faced him slowly. He’d been looking at the shelves and around as though he didn’t know what books were in this library. But now he had a strange, determined look on his face, as though he’d found a mask he could put on which fit him well. Harry looked back as neutrally as he could, and slid a hand beneath the table to grasp the Elder Wand.  
  
“There’s someone I _could_ introduce you to,” Malfoy said slowly. “One person that you kept up ties with and I kept up ties with, but we never went there together. And you haven’t mentioned him at all since you—came back.”  
  
“Who are you talking about?” Harry couldn’t think who Old Harry and Malfoy would have had in common as a friend, except perhaps a Potions brewer such as Kelvin—someone else he wouldn’t want to know.  
  
“Teddy Lupin.”  
  
*  
  
Harry had told himself, based on the information Malfoy had given him, that of _course_ Teddy wasn’t a tiny baby. That Harry only ever remembered seeing him that way in a photograph didn’t matter. Ten years had passed for everyone except him. That was the point Harry had to keep pounding into himself, and then he had to add that the years had passed for him, too, just not pleasantly.  
  
But it was still an utter shock to see a ten-year-old boy standing in Andromeda’s house staring at Harry. He had brown hair and brown eyes at the moment, but even as Harry watched, he choked, and his eyes bled to blue. He turned away and walked towards the stairs.  
  
“Teddy!” Andromeda called after him. She had threads of grey in her hair Harry didn’t remember before, but otherwise, she looked almost the same as his few memories of her painted her. She smiled painfully at Harry and held out her hand. “You look different, dear.”  
  
“Do I?” Harry didn’t know how much they knew, how much they’d heard from Ron and Hermione and the rest, and how much they had ever known in the first place. Malfoy had been able to tell him that Old Harry often visited his godson and Andromeda, and that he didn’t want Malfoy to come and visit when _he_ did, in case they betrayed that they were more familiar than distant schoolmates.   
  
“Yes, you do.” Andromeda scanned him from head to toe once, then nodded firmly. “You look as though your shoulders are carrying less weight and there’s more light in your eyes.”  
  
“You look different from my godfather.”  
  
Teddy had come back to the table. Harry turned to him, heart aching. Here, he really felt the passage of time most keenly. Ron and Hermione’s children were still too young to remember much of anything, and Harry knew he had seen Bill’s children often but probably not as often as Teddy. And now he had to be godfather to a boy he only felt eight years older than.  
  
Teddy had grey hair and amber eyes now, so like Remus that Harry blinked and said, before he could stop himself, “Do you have photographs of him looking like that?”  
  
Teddy fell a step backwards as if shocked. “Who are you talking about?” he asked, and looked at Andromeda, what seemed instinctively.  
  
“Your dad,” said Harry. “Remus Lupin. He looked like that sometimes. I just wondered if you had a photograph and you were copying it on purpose.” He could feel how hot his face was just sitting at the table. Malfoy shifted a little behind him, and Harry found himself turning and looking up. “Does he have one?”  
  
“You should ask _me_ that question, not my cousin.”  
  
Harry turned around. He was going to mess this up, all up, and then—“You’re right,” he said, as calmly as he could. “Sorry.”  
  
Teddy fell a single step back. He stared at Harry with wide eyes, then shook his head and bolted for the stairs again.  
  
Andromeda opened her mouth, and Harry assumed she was going to call him back, but Harry shook his head. “Let him go for now. I need to know a little more before I talk to him.” He folded his hands on the table. “How much did you know of what’s appearing in the papers now?”  
  
“You thought I would have known and permitted you to continue visiting Teddy?” Andromeda seemed to swell, but she didn’t move, and her voice only grew a little colder. “I would have moved to another continent before I let someone who was _enslaving_ people speak to Teddy. I didn’t leave my family over their abasement to You-Know-Who just to get back into that.”  
  
Harry blinked. Then he nodded. Andromeda’s answer was fiercer than he’d expected, but fierce like a cold wind he could face into and accept the sting of on his cheeks. “Good. Then that makes one person who’ll be glad that I changed.”  
  
“I cannot believe Ron or Hermione would want you to keep doing those things.”  
  
“No. But they miss the façade Old Harry had.” Harry was aware of Malfoy prowling around behind him. He finally chose a chair to Harry’s left and sat down, which was a relief. “They keep wanting to know how he could have lied to them so perfectly and done all these things behind their backs. And I don’t have an answer for them, because I don’t remember them.”  
  
Andromeda considered him carefully, then Summoned over a small plate of scones. Harry relaxed. He felt he’d passed a test.  
  
“He was an excellent liar. I never knew that.” Andromeda leaned back in her chair, nibbling at a scone. With a wave of her wand, a jar of marmalade and a small dish of butter also floated over. Harry waited what he thought was a polite moment before he began spreading the butter on his scone.  
  
“I know it sounds as if they’re doubting you.”  
  
Startled, Harry looked up. Andromeda leaned towards him with huge, compassionate eyes. One of her hands patted his.  
  
“I think they’re doubting themselves more than they are you, wondering how in the world they could have missed secrets that huge. But they’ll get past it. And you’ll do the same thing.”  
  
“I understand exactly why they would feel that way,” Harry said. “I mean, I was horrified when I found out about it. But thank you,” he added, when Andromeda’s smile started to look a little pinched. He ate half the scone, then set it down.  
  
“How bad was his relationship with Teddy?” he asked.  
  
Andromeda didn’t pretend to misunderstand him. “Harry and Teddy were close. He came over every week at least, and usually more often than that. He taught Teddy to fly, gave him his first Snitch, took him to his first live Quidditch game. He took Teddy traveling in the Muggle world. He told him that his parents would be proud of him and sympathized with him when he was fighting with me.” Andromeda took a deep breath. “I would never have permitted that Harry to visit Teddy if I’d known about his other secrets, but I can at least say he was a devoted godfather.”  
  
Harry closed his eyes. It was the first time he’d heard something good about Old Harry that he could actually _believe._  
  
“And so, for Teddy,” he whispered, “his devoted godfather is dead.”   
  
“I thought it would be that way as soon as I heard you didn’t remember anything of the past ten years.” Andromeda shook her head. “It’s not your fault. But Teddy can’t accept it. I think he hoped that you were ignoring us because you were getting your memories back, and then you would come in and everything would be back to normal.”  
  
Harry swallowed. There was pain in his chest as if he had swallowed shards of glass. And this was a pain that _he_ had caused, not one that Old Harry had caused and Harry had to try and clean up on his own.  
  
“Do you want me to call him down?” Andromeda asked gently.  
  
Malfoy’s hand was squeezing Harry’s shoulder, providing him with an anchor of sorts. He leaned back and shook his head. “I don’t think we would accomplish anything that way. I have to go to Teddy, not the other way around.”  
  
Andromeda raised her eyebrows high enough to endanger her forehead. “Well, that’s different from the way I’m raised him,” she murmured. “But I think in this case, you’re the one who knows best.”  
  
Harry tried to ignore the palpable doubt radiating from her, and nodded. “Thank you.” He stood and turned for the stairs.  
  
“Do you want me to come with you?”  
  
Harry looked over his shoulder, waving Malfoy back into his seat. “No, thank you. I have to do this alone.”  
  
Malfoy sat back down, but Harry could feel his eyes like two nails digging into his back all the way upstairs.  
  
*  
  
It had taken Harry a moment of searching to find Teddy’s room. Andromeda seemed to have a number of spare bedrooms, although only one bathroom, and a number of cupboards used for storage of clothes and blankets. Finally Harry found the door that had a small design of brooms around the knob, and knocked.  
  
“Go _away_.”  
  
“I’m here if you want to talk to me,” Harry said, taking a step back. “That’s all.”  
  
“You’re not _him_.”  
  
“No,” Harry agreed, and for the first time since he’d started learning what Old Harry had done, he regretted it. “I’m not.”  
  
Teddy ran across the room, from the sounds, and opened the door. He glared at Harry through eyes that had gone brilliantly yellow, like a wolf’s, but his hair was purple, as if he had decided to be the perfect combination of Remus and Tonks for the moment. “Why did you even _come_ here?”  
  
“Because I felt like I’d been ignoring you since I woke up, and I didn’t want to do that anymore.”  
  
“You should have gone on ignoring me.” Teddy bowed his head, and his hand shook where it held the doorknob. “It would have hurt less that way. You can never be _him_.”  
  
“I know. But I’d like to have a try at helping you and loving you.”  
  
“Why, when you don’t even _know_ me?”  
  
“I don’t know you _yet_. But we’re both still alive. There’s a chance I can get to know you, if you talk about yourself.”  
  
Teddy eyed him in silent hostility for a minute. Harry waited, and hoped he wasn’t doing everything wrong. He supposed he never would know if he was, until such time as Teddy made the decision.  
  
“I don’t want to hear about _you_. And I shouldn’t have to talk to you. Harry knew all _about_ me. He’s been there since I was born.”  
  
Harry breathed carefully. Teddy could take anything the wrong way, including a huge sigh. “I know. I’m sorry. Do you still want to talk to me about things like how much you like Quidditch or whether you have a favorite branch of magic?”  
  
“No. You’re not _my_ godfather.”  
  
And Teddy slammed the door. Harry stood there for a second, wondering if he should knock again, ask again, but—  
  
 _Not now. He’s right that I’m not Old Harry. And he’s_ ten years old. _I can’t expect him to just start rejoicing that all the lies Old Harry told are coming back to haunt him. Teddy is going to be one of the people still haunted by those lies._  
  
In fact—  
  
Harry winced. Maybe Teddy was even having to ask himself, if Old Harry had lied about everything, whether he’d ever lied about loving Teddy. Andromeda would have tried to reassure him, but Teddy didn’t seem like the kind of kid who got easily reassured.  
  
Harry moved slowly, heavily, down the stairs. The one thing he had enough of, he thought, was time. He would go and do as he must, and give Teddy some time, and maybe they could have a relationship again someday.  
  
Andromeda and Malfoy waited at the kitchen table, talking softly. Andromeda turned around at once when Harry came in; Malfoy glanced up more slowly. But Harry still had to shake his head in the face of their probing eyes.  
  
“He can’t. Not right now. He hurts too badly.”  
  
Andromeda covered her mouth with one hand, but nodded, even as her eyes filled with tears. Malfoy got up and moved around the table to take Harry’s shoulders.  
  
“I’m sorry that things didn’t work out,” Malfoy whispered to him. “I’ll help you any way I can.”  
  
Harry looked at him wordlessly. Malfoy was the one who had reminded him of Andromeda and Teddy’s existence, who had decided to come with him here, who was apologizing now. Harry couldn’t imagine Rob doing the same thing, and not many other people, either.  
  
Maybe only Ron and Hermione. If the rest of the Weasleys had a relationship with Harry that would have let them sympathize like Malfoy was doing, Harry had forgotten it.  
  
“For now,” Harry said, “take me home.” He paused and turned back to Andromeda. “I’m sorry. I’ll come and talk a different time.”  
  
“It’s fine.” Andromeda managed to smile even though it looked difficult and her eyes still gleamed with traitorous tears. “You couldn’t help it. _Any_ of what happened, Harry.”  
  
Wishing he believed that, wishing, again, with all his heart, that Old Harry had been a better person, Harry still nodded and let Draco take him home.  
  



	33. He Shall Overcome

There was another letter from Rob that morning. Harry burned it without looking at it. Rob could say nothing that would induce Harry to take him back.  
  
 _And it’s the way he’s so focused on me taking him back that’s the problem,_ Harry thought, as he watched Royal warm his tail feathers at the fire, now and then glancing back as if he wanted to make sure the whole letter was burning properly. _He can’t help me with anything else the way Malfoy does, and he only told me the truth under pressure. He wants to date me again, and that’s_ all _he wants._  
  
Malfoy at least wanted other things, even if Harry had to agree that they might be almost as disturbing.  
  
Royal sat up straight suddenly. Harry glanced towards the door of the library, and nodded when he heard footsteps in the corridor. “You can leave if you want,” he told his owl. He knew Royal didn’t like Malfoy. Then again, Royal seemed to dislike most people and only put up an amused tolerance to Harry.  
  
Royal didn’t fly off. In fact, he flew to Harry’s shoulder instead and began to delicately groom his hair, picking through the pieces on purpose, his head lowered into Harry’s shoulder like a lover.  
  
Harry closed his eyes and chuckled. “Sometimes you’re a wanker.”  
  
“Were you talking to me?”  
  
Harry opened his eyes, although it was hard to turn his head with Royal seated stubbornly where he was. Malfoy stood in the entrance of the library, balancing a tray of food in his hands. Harry blinked. He knew that most of the time, house-elves were the only ones who brought food, and it seemed odd that Malfoy should have usurped a house-elf’s place.  
  
“No. My owl,” Harry said, eyes on the crisply-made sandwiches on the tray and the huge, iced tumbler of orange juice, which he knew Malfoy liked. It seemed made for two people, much more than for one. “Uh.”  
  
“I thought,” said Malfoy, with a nod to the window, “that we could eat outside, since there’s plenty of sunshine right now. And Warming Charms we can use on the garden if we need to.”  
  
Harry rubbed the back of his head for a minute, forgetting Royal was there. Royal punished him with a sharp nip on the finger that luckily didn’t sever it. “I don’t know. I was looking forward to reading.”  
  
“Yes, the house-elves mentioned that you’d been reading all morning and hadn’t eaten anything.” Malfoy looked mild and uncompromising. “That means you need to. So come out with me and do it.”  
  
“What happened to staying apart and only associating with each other when we want to?” Harry asked, since no other blunt reminder seemed to be getting through.  
  
“I want to associate with you right now. If you feel differently and don’t want to eat lunch outside, then you only need to tell me.”  
  
Malfoy looked at Harry with wide eyes that were extraordinarily pleading. And extraordinarily effective, Harry had to admit, although that might be because he had seen Teddy’s pleading that way less than twenty-four hours ago.  
  
“I do want to eat,” Harry admitted. “And I’m not looking forward to reading so much I can’t put it off.” He didn’t say the real objection he’d been thinking of, which was, _Do I really want to get so close to Malfoy when I don’t even know if I can satisfy everything he wants of me?_  
  
Malfoy didn’t seem to hear the silent objection. He smiled, and even Harry had to admit that it was a pretty nice smile, one that didn’t look as greedy as lots of his others did. “Then I’ll lead the way,” he said, and turned and walked out the door before Harry could even ask him why he was carrying the tray instead of floating it along with him.  
  
Harry had to negotiate silently with Royal before Royal would let his hair go and Harry could get up, but at least it got accomplished without bloodshed.   
  
*  
  
“What am I going to do about Teddy?”  
  
It was two hours later. The gardens of Malfoy Manor were an even better choice for an outdoor meal than Harry would have thought; the Warming Charms Malfoy had mentioned radiated up through the earth, and there were arrangements of flowers around them that made Harry feel like he was surrounded by a dragon’s hoard. He lay flat on the grass and stared up at the clouds, talking to them instead of Malfoy.  
  
A second later, he couldn’t believe he’d asked such a stupid question of Malfoy at all. It was probably the champagne-like wine to blame.  
  
“I can tell you what I think. Not that I’m an expert at dealing with children. But I have got to know Teddy well in the last few years.”  
  
Harry rolled back onto his elbow so he could see Malfoy. Malfoy sat with his arms folded in his lap, watching a golden flower shifting in the wind. When he glanced at Harry, Harry nodded. “And I don’t know Teddy at all.”  
  
“You will. Give it time.” Malfoy glanced again at the flower. “One thing Teddy hates is feeling forced into a corner. I think Andromeda does it to him fairly often, without meaning to. She’ll compare Teddy to his mother, especially because he has the Metamorphmagus talent, and not realize how much he hates that.”  
  
“Because then he thinks he has to be like Tonks?”  
  
“To—oh, yes. Nymphadora.” Malfoy smiled slightly. “Andromeda refers to her by her first name all the time. I sometimes forget that Tonks was anything other than a last name.”  
  
 _I wouldn’t have forgotten._  
  
But Harry had to close his eyes against a sudden and overwhelming pang of loss for Tonks and Remus, and ask, when he thought his throat was a little less tight and Malfoy could understand him, “Teddy thinks he has to be like her? And he doesn’t want to be?”  
  
“No. Andromeda already mentions him applying to Auror training, when Teddy hasn’t even gone to Hogwarts yet. And Teddy thinks that being an Auror got her killed.”  
  
“It was the Battle of Hogwarts that did that,” Harry mumbled, but he could see where Teddy had got the idea. And maybe he felt like Andromeda was treating him as a replacement for his mother. Harry could see where that would hurt.  
  
Maybe he would even have felt the same way himself, if he had had someone in his life who’d loved his mother and seen him the same way. Instead, for Harry, it had been all about his father, whether it was Snape’s hatred for him or Sirius’s love for him.  
  
It hit Harry suddenly that Sirius had been dead for thirteen years, and Snape for ten. He bent his head down and put it between his knees. He was breathing too hard.  
  
“Potter? Harry?” Malfoy had hurried up behind him, and put one slender hand on his shoulder. He could press down pretty hard for someone with such a slender hand, though, Harry thought muzzily. “What’s wrong?”  
  
Harry gulped enough air to say, “I’m all right,” and then put his head down again. Slowly, the whirling pieces of black and white behind his eyes calmed. He reached up and squeezed Malfoy’s wrist, but Malfoy made no effort to move away.  
  
Harry finally looked up, sighed, and said, “It just hit me that the people in my life who compared me to my dad have been dead a lot longer than I thought they were.”  
  
He stopped, because he thought that would sound stupid, but all that happened was Malfoy nodding a little. “You’ve had to put dealing with that aside at first, because you had so much else to think about.”  
  
“Yeah.” Harry rested his head on what he thought was the stone wall around a flowerbed at first, and then realized was the bracing of Malfoy’s arm. His face flushed and he sat up rapidly, but Malfoy, with a peculiar expression, pushed him back into place.  
  
“Stay as long as you need. I like supporting you.”  
  
Harry blinked, but Malfoy’s expression was one of those serious ones it was hard to argue with, so Harry finally nodded and let his head fall back again. The air was still soft and sweet with the scent of flowers. It hadn’t changed because he had.  
  
“It’s the way I didn’t think about Teddy at first, either,” Harry said finally. “I should have, but there were so many secrets, and then not knowing what was true, and then arguments with my friends, and people hunting me—”  
  
“Don’t blame yourself. He’ll get over it.”  
  
“Will he?” Harry tilted back to stare into Malfoy’s eyes. If Malfoy was feeling any discomfort standing over Harry and partially holding him _and_ peering down like that, he didn’t show it; his eyes remained steady on Harry’s. “I know people like to say things like that, but Teddy’s having to deal with the death of someone he loved very much, and he’s only ten!”  
  
Malfoy shook his head a little. “I’m not saying it because it’s a platitude. I’m saying it because I believe it. One way or another, Teddy _will_ get over this. Yes, he’s only ten. But he has a grandmother who also loves him, and he’s also dealing with a lot of revelations about that godfather that are going to change his perception of him.”  
  
Malfoy paused, and Harry found himself waiting for the next words in a way he hadn’t waited for anyone’s but Ginny’s since he woke up. Finally, Malfoy continued, “He might not ever forgive you. He might not have the close relationship with you that he did with Old Harry. But he won’t be crumpled for life by this, either.”  
  
Harry managed a chuckle. “You aren’t that reassuring even when you want to be. You know that?”  
  
“I don’t want to reassure you by lying or telling platitudes. I think you’ve had enough of that in your life.” Malfoy abruptly knelt down in front of him, adjusted his arms so he was embracing Harry instead of supporting him from behind, and smiled a little. “Even if some of the platitudes were ones that you told to _yourself_.”  
  
Harry nodded. “Like sacrifices being good things as long as I could please other people. And love was good even if it was faked.”  
  
“Exactly.”  
  
Harry closed his eyes and did something he didn’t think he could have done with them open. He leaned slowly forwards until his forehead touched Malfoy’s shoulder.  
  
“Potter?” Malfoy breathed for a second, and then touched the second name with his tongue in a way that said he didn’t know how welcome it was. “Harry?”  
  
“Thank you,” Harry whispered. He waited another second, to make sure neither of them would back away, and then raised his arms and looped them around Malfoy’s shoulders. “Thank you for not leaving. Thank you for telling me the truth. Thanks for being there to support me. Literally, this time.”  
  
Malfoy smiled against his neck, but waited. Harry moved on slowly to the second part of what he had to say. “Draco.”  
  
Malfoy stiffened, then slowly slumped back into his muscles. His arms got looser, but he turned his head to the side, into Harry’s neck, and kept it there. “Thank you,” he said.  
  
They remained like that for long enough that Harry’s arms and neck both started to ache, and then Malfoy stood up with a brisk shake of his head. “Shall we go inside?” he asked, holding out his hand.   
  
Harry waited, wondering why he didn’t simply Summon the plates and tray. But then he realized that Malfoy’s—Draco’s—hand was for him, not the objects.  
  
And it was starting to tremble a little.  
  
Harry stood and smiled, holding onto Draco’s hand. “Come on, then. Let’s go.”  
  
They did, and Harry made a mental note to tell a house-elf to come outside and clean up. For now, Draco’s face as he stared down at Harry’s hand was too rich with shock for Harry to want to disturb him.  
  
*  
  
“Thank you for coming.”  
  
Harry nodded, but didn’t say anything, since they were going into the dining room with Andromeda now. Teddy was scowling at them—well, him, anyway, not Draco—from the head of the table. He had hair and eyes that looked exactly like Andromeda’s right now, as if he wanted to be as much of a Black as possible.  
  
“Hello, Teddy,” said Harry, and then followed Draco’s advice and talked to Andromeda instead. “Would you know anything about where some of the valuable things in Grimmauld Place might be?”  
  
Andromeda looked up in shock, and then shook her head. “The last time I visited that place, I was sixteen. And it was never my home, anyway, not the way it was Sirius and Regulus’s.”  
  
Harry breathed through the grief that accompanied Sirius’s name—for him, anyway, probably not for Old Harry—and said, “Oh, I know. But I think there are all sorts of old cupboards and drawers locked away. I was mainly thinking of hiding _places,_ not objects. Trying to find the dangerous secrets I don’t remember as well as where Old Harry might have hidden things is driving me mental.”  
  
“Why do you call him Old Harry?” Teddy interrupted. His voice was sullen.  
  
“Because that’s what he is, to me,” Harry answered, ignoring the way Draco sneered a little. “He’s separate from me, a person who did a lot of things that I don’t approve of.” He turned back to Andromeda. “And I don’t want one of the surprises to spring up and make my life nasty someday.”  
  
“I thought you weren’t even living there now,” Teddy said, still in a mutter, stabbing some food with his fork and letting it fall through the tines. “The papers said you were living in Malfoy Manor. With _him_.” He jerked his head at Draco.  
  
“You could be a little more polite when you refer to me, cousin,” Draco said. “Even if your stock of politeness _does_ match your stature.”  
  
“I’m not short!”  
  
“Of course not,” Draco murmured. “The short length of time my eyes take to get from the top of your head to your toes is just a coincidence, I’m sure.”  
  
Teddy started bickering with Draco, and Andromeda turned back to Harry with a smile she didn’t hide very well. “I’m happy to make a list. You’re right that I know a lot of those places from the times I would visit my cousins and they would play hide-and-seek with us. And my memories of childhood seem so much more vivid than most of my memories now.”  
  
“I don’t really notice the difference. What’s the thing you remember best?” Harry added hastily, because he thought Andromeda might start with sympathy, and he really hadn’t made his remark for that.  
  
“ _Best_? The times I spent making up stories when I was a girl.”  
  
“You wrote?”  
  
Andromeda shook her head. “I never wrote them down. I just told them to myself and—my sisters.” There was the slightest hesitation, and she flashed a glance at Draco that Harry thought Draco noticed, even though he never turned away from his somewhat manufactured argument with Teddy. “I would come up with a place I’d never seen, somewhere that seemed exotic, like Muggle Paris, and cram all these characters and stories into it. Then I’d tell what I had so far to my sisters and tell them to make a decision about what those characters did next.”  
  
Harry tried to picture Bellatrix participating in any entertainment that innocent, and failed. On the other hand, Andromeda wasn’t really asking him to comment on it. He murmured, “Did you have a lot of stories?”  
  
“They never ended. They went from day to day, and sometimes I changed the setting and my sisters objected. Or Narcissa would want to hear some part from the day before exactly as she remembered it, and correct me if I got a word wrong. I always told her to tell it to _herself_ since she remembered it so well, but that was never the same.” Andromeda rolled her eyes enormously. “Little sisters.”  
  
Harry smiled and tried not to show how envious he was. Stories and siblings—maybe he could have had something like that with Dudley if both of them were different people, but they hadn’t been.  
  
“What was one of the stories? Since you remember?”  
  
Andromeda flushed. “I—well, I told you that I’d never seen these places. So it’s not as though I was really telling stories _about_ them. They were as unreal to me as the places in fairy tales are to Muggles.”  
  
“I don’t care. I probably wouldn’t even notice the difference unless you point it out to me.”  
  
“All right.” Andromeda cleared her throat. “So. One of the stories I came up with was about the Himalayas. I’d read in a book how Everest is the highest mountain in the world, but I said there was a higher one, there’s _got_ to be a higher one, because Muggles ignore all sorts of things and don’t know all sorts of things, and they must have missed another one. An invisible one, behind Everest. You can only tell it’s there because of the snow that blows against it sometimes, framing it in briefly for the watchers…”  
  
Harry listened as her voice flowed on, telling a story of snow and the white butterflies that danced there, fragile as snowflakes, and the woman who decided to climb the mountain and find them. He became aware, at some point, that Draco and Teddy had stopped arguing and were listening instead.  
  
Just the slightest bit, like he was about to startle a feral cat, Harry turned his head.  
  
Teddy had a rapt expression on his face. And from the way he looked, Harry wondered if he’d ever heard his Gran tell a story before.  
  
Draco was smiling, a faint, enchanted smile, something Harry valued all the more because it wasn’t caused by _him_.  
  
 _He isn’t just his obsession with me. He’s more than that. Much more._  
  
Harry took Draco’s hand beneath the table, startling him a little. But it was easy enough to turn back to Andromeda’s tale, and watch it wrap its way around Draco, too.  
  
As he listened, Harry’s envy and grief wore away, and he found a deep contentment.  
  
 _The old memories are gone. But I can make new ones._


	34. Making Anew

“Malfoy really lets you have us _here_?” Ron sat cautiously down on the edge of a spindly chair and stared around the library as though he assumed he would tear the books apart just by being in the same room with them.  
  
“He did say you could visit.” Harry stuck his legs off the edge of the chair and swung them, smiling at Ron. “And that this was my home. That means I can have my friends over to visit.”  
  
Ron swallowed and nodded. “You know Hermione would have come with me, mate? She just had a big case come up at the last minute. And even then, I could only come because Mum wanted to take the kids anyway.”  
  
“I know.” Harry also suspected that Hermione had left him and Ron alone so they could talk about things by themselves, but then again, he and Ron probably needed that. He caught Ron’s eye. “How are you doing, knowing I’m not going to come back and by your partner again?”  
  
Ron sighed and stared at the floor between his feet. “It’s hard,” he admitted. “You were always right _there_ , and you knew more about the cases we were going to have than I did.” He peeked up at Harry from under his fringe. “Some of that was more than coincidence, wasn’t it?”  
  
“A lot more,” Harry told him gently.  
  
Ron nodded, not looking surprised. “I can’t wish for _that_ to come back. I want—all sorts of things, Harry. But mostly I’ve accepted that you’re not the way you were, you weren’t _ever_ the way I thought you were.” He frowned, and then added, “And I would rather have you the way you are now than go back to something that was false in the first place.”  
  
Harry reached out and clapped Ron’s shoulder once. Ron nodded, and for a few minutes they sat in silence. Then Harry asked, “Will you tell me some more about normal memories? The ones of you and Hermione being a couple, I mean. The sorts of things Old Harry would have known about because you told him, not because he was there.”  
  
Ron leaned back and studied him. “Trying to find memories that aren’t tainted by his presence?”  
  
Harry grimaced and nodded. “But also because I want to _know_ you, Ron.”  
  
“You know the most important things about us. The things that have lasted the longest.”  
  
“But that’s not the same thing as jokes and conversations that you summarized for me and things you might have complained about to me when Hermione wasn’t there. I want to know those things, too. And I’ll talk to Hermione when she’s not so busy and ask her for the same memories.”  
  
“Shit. I’m not sure my memory is _that_ good, mate.”  
  
Harry grinned, because he knew that tone of voice from Hogwarts, and it wasn’t one that he thought Old Harry would have had the power to corrupt or change. “I’m not asking for it to be. I’ve—just been thinking a lot about memories lately, you know?” Ron nodded, never taking his eyes from Harry’s face. “And I think it’s true that we can’t remember every single thing, but there’s a sort of texture that builds up. A way you know people because of all the things you remember in general. That’s what I’d like to have back with you.”  
  
“I like that. A texture.” Ron slowly picked up the cup of tea that one of Draco’s house-elves had brought and began to sip it. “All right. I’ll start with some of the things leading up to our wedding. I know you weren’t there, but…”  
  
Harry smiled. This was what he wanted to be doing right now, sitting with his best friend and listening to memories that Ron had accepted were really not his. Old Harry hadn’t been there, and he and Harry were different people.  
  
It was difficult to imagine feeling more content.  
  
*  
  
“—and then Hermione dumped an entire pot of tea over me.”  
  
Harry laughed hard enough to launch some tea at Ron himself. Ron snorted and cast a Cleaning Charm without even stopping the story.  
  
“That finally cured me of my tendency to slobber over Veela women.” Ron grinned and shook his head. “I can’t remember why I used to, you know? I mean, I’m used to Fleur arguing with Bill and having crumbs on her from the kids’ lunch half the time now. I suppose I was just surprised to see Gabrielle all grown up.”  
  
“Careful, mate. You still sound a little wistful.”  
  
“I am _not_!” Ron sat up. “Come to think of it, mate, maybe Gabrielle would like to meet _you_. You two never spent much time together, and you were always immune to the allure of Veela women anyway.”  
  
Harry blinked and picked up his small plate of food again, confronted unexpectedly with something he hadn’t thought would come up for months. Maybe years, if that was what it took him to get his head back together.  
  
“Mate? Harry?”  
  
Harry sighed and looked up. “I don’t know how to tell you this with good words, Ron, so I’m going to use the less good ones and hope it works.”  
  
“As long as you’re not telling me that you’ve lost your memory again and I told you all those stories for nothing, that’s fine,” said Ron, a little suspiciously.  
  
“I don’t want to date someone in the Weasley family. Or marry anyone from it, either.”  
  
Ron blinked hard. Then he said, “Gabrielle’s not a Weasley.” He sighed when Harry gave him a pointed look. “Fine, I know what you mean. But _why_? You know that we would all get over it. It might take us a while, but we _would_. We want you and Gin to be happy, and you can’t be with each other.”  
  
“Because I want to live a life that’s not touched by those old lies. Old Harry lied to Ginny about his reasons for dating her, and implied that he’d been waiting five years for her, just like she had with him. I don’t want to do something that would hurt her—”  
  
“She would get over it.”  
  
“I don’t think you can speak for her. And I don’t want to take the chance. And I want to see what’s _new_ out there. I want to reconnect with you lot, too, and maybe someday Ginny and I can be friends again. But I really, _really_ don’t want to date someone who would remind us all of the bad times. Okay?”  
  
Ron sighed so hard and so long that Harry thought he would exhaust himself. Then he shook his head. “I spent five years thinking you wouldn’t be my brother-in-law after all. And then five thinking you were. And a few months not knowing _what_ would happen. I suppose it’s not going to happen now, huh?”  
  
“I suppose not.” Harry smiled at him. “Thanks for understanding, really. I want to think about other things, explore other things. That’s hard if all I’m thinking of is getting back together with Ginny, or dating Gabrielle.”  
  
“Tell me one thing,” Ron said, and then instead of telling Harry what he was going to ask, drank tea until his throat must have burned.  
  
“Yes?” Harry asked when Ron was done, just to prove that he didn’t forget when he was asked about something like that.  
  
Ron sighed noisily and looked up at the ceiling. “Are you going to date Malfoy?”  
  
“I have no idea.”  
  
Ron looked down again and blinked. “That’s—sort of a lie, mate. If you didn’t have any idea, you wouldn’t be here living in his bloody house, would you?”  
  
“I wanted a safe place, and a place to do some research on what I can do for the rest of my life, and he’s provided both,” Harry said simply. He held up a hand when Ron opened his mouth. “No, neither one is ideal. But it’s _also_ true that I don’t know what’s going to happen. We’ve talked, and he’s closer to me in some ways, and I understand him a lot better in others. But it’s still a little early to say that I’m going to spend the rest of my life with him.”  
  
“I hope you know what you’re doing.” Ron had sat back with his arms folded, and his face was openly skeptical.  
  
“Yeah,” said Harry. “Me, too.”  
  
The last thing he wanted was to repeat what had happened with Ginny, no matter how much Draco might want him. Harry would be honest with Draco even if it was painful. He deserved the ability to move on and find someone else if Harry couldn’t bring himself to love Draco, the same way she had.   
  
But Harry also didn’t think he had to make the decision right now. Draco seemed content to wait instead of pushing.  
  
*  
  
“Please come have dinner with me tonight.”  
  
Harry had received the message from Draco half an hour ago, and it still puzzled him. If Draco wanted to spend time with him, why not just come to the library or Harry’s bedroom, the way he had in the past few days? He hadn’t hesitated to invite Harry to go with him to Teddy and Andromeda’s house, or to the lunch on the grass.  
  
But maybe he wanted to preserve a formal distance for dinner. Harry had dressed in nicer robes than normal because of that suspicion. He wandered down the main stairs in the blue ones, pausing when he got to the door of a dining room. Draco hadn’t actually told him when dinner started, or when he wanted to have it.  
  
“Is Master Harry lost?”  
  
Harry started and turned. The grey-eyed house-elf stood at the bottom of the stairs, bowing as he straightened. Harry had to look away, uncomfortably. Seen from this close, the elf’s resemblance to Draco was even more startling.  
  
“Draco invited me for dinner, but I don’t know where I’m going,” Harry mumbled, and lowered his head so he could look into the door of the dining room ahead while not looking at the elf. No, it was empty.  
  
“Master Draco is this way,” said the elf, and set off walking with a soft pad of his feet. Harry grimaced a little and followed, watching the portraits set in the walls turn to stare at him.  
  
Sure enough, he stepped into the most formal dining room he’d seen yet in the Manor. The table sprawled ahead of him down the center of the carpet, and it was polished to such a high shine that the reflection of the candles in it was actively painful. And the fireplace was made of marble, and there were enough forks on the table to equip an army.  
  
Draco stood at the head of the table, beside a chair that had been pulled a little way out. His face was anxious, and he wore charcoal-colored robes that looked as if they’d been trimmed with gold and lace at the same time.  
  
“Um, hi,” said Harry, and scratched the back of his neck, glancing around for the house-elf. He seemed to have disappeared, though. Harry hadn’t heard the crack that meant he had, but he’d been sort of distracted looking at Draco.  
  
“Hello.”  
  
Draco’s voice was smoother and deeper than Harry had heard it before. He moved a slow step forwards, trying to figure out if he was supposed to sit at the end of the table or in one of the chairs beside Draco’s.  
  
Then Draco shook his head a little and dragged the chair he stood behind out and away from the table. Harry stopped and stared at him. Draco returned the look, only his hand tightening on the chair and his throat bobbing a little as he swallowed.  
  
“I don’t understand,” Harry said. “Why are you being so formal when that’s never happened so far?”  
  
Draco closed his eyes, and Harry watched the slight ripple of his eyelashes over his cheeks. “Because I really want you, and I don’t know how else to do this,” he whispered. “I thought if I could show you this—courtesy, and giving you your favorite dishes, and having you eat in beautiful surroundings, you might think better of me.”  
  
“And because formality makes you more comfortable.”  
  
Draco turned to him, staring. Then he said, “Yes, perhaps that was it. Or at least some of it.”  
  
Harry nodded, and hesitated. Draco might be more comfortable with formality, but that didn’t mean Harry was, even if he had changed some of his attitudes since he was Old Harry.  
  
On the other hand, he hadn’t come in here intending to reject the formality. He’d even put on dress robes because he thought they might be required. And Draco was so nervous that Harry couldn’t resent him doing whatever he might to make himself more comfortable.  
  
When he walked over and sat down in the chair that Draco held, Draco’s smile was sweet and full of relief. He touched Harry’s shoulder lightly before he pushed the chair in. The minute he took his hands off, food started appearing on the table.  
  
Harry blinked. Treacle tart. The sort of sandwiches Draco had packed for their lunch in the gardens the other day—well, all right, maybe the house-elves had made them after all, even if Draco had been the one to bring them. A dish of roasted duck that he knew he’d made ecstatic noises over when it was first served to him, a few nights ago. Harry tilted his head back and looked up at Draco.  
  
Draco was flushing hard. He shrugged and muttered, “I told you that I wanted to feed you your favorite foods.”  
  
“Right, but I’m not going to eat them from your fingers, am I? Will you _sit down_ and stop hovering over me?”  
  
Draco jumped. Then he smiled and sat down in the chair next to Harry’s on the right. Harry had the impression that he was already violating the etiquette of a pure-blood dinner, but he didn’t intend to say anything about that. Draco was smiling, and that was the important thing.  
  
Harry picked up one of the sandwiches and started eating. Then he grunted and gestured Draco at the plates. Draco turned to survey them. “What’s wrong with them?”  
  
Harry rolled his eyes. He couldn’t speak right away because his mouth was full of sticky sandwich filling, but he worked his jaws loose and swallowed, and then said, “I want you to eat, too. Not just sit there staring at me dreamily like I’m a work of art.”  
  
“You _are_ a work of art.”  
  
“Well, your staring makes me nervous,” said Harry irritably. “Eat, will you?”  
  
There was a tender, triumphant smile on Draco’s face now as he reached out and guided some of the duck onto his plate. Harry shook his head and waited until he was sure Draco would pay at least some of his attention to his food before he went on eating.  
  
It was flattering, and probably the closest to sweet that Draco was capable of. But Harry _still_ didn’t want someone staring at him constantly when he was trying to eat.  
  
More dishes appeared as Harry finished the sandwich, some of them roasted and steaming meat, some of them salads, some of them compounds of fruit and rice that Harry hadn’t seen since Hogwarts. He snorted a little as he ate a slice of orange that delicate rice grains clung to. “Did you teach your house-elves to cook like the ones at Hogwarts?”  
  
“I think rather that some of the house-elves at Hogwarts must have learned from the one of ours that you freed,” said Draco, leaning backwards and studying Harry as if he thought Harry would provide the answers to some puzzle. “Dobby, was his name?”  
  
Harry had to close his eyes abruptly. He hadn’t thought of Dobby much since he woke up, probably because he hadn’t spent time in the Manor’s cellars. But now…  
  
“Yeah,” Harry whispered. “Dobby.” He took a deep breath. _I should visit his grave. And Remus and Tonks’s graves. Does Andromeda take Teddy to see them? I should ask the next time I visit her._  
  
About to ask if Draco knew, Harry opened his eyes—and stopped. The expression on Draco’s face was so twisted-up he couldn’t tell what it was, grief or anger or something else.  
  
“What is it?” Harry whispered.  
  
Draco glanced at the wall and picked up his cup of pumpkin juice, drinking it so fast that he looked as if it hurt him to swallow. Then he said, “You really admired him. That stupid elf. You really liked him.”  
  
“He died helping us escape,” said Harry, and decided not to emphasize just who they had been escaping _from_. It wasn’t as if Draco didn’t know.   
  
“But before that. How did you decide that you liked and admired him before that?”  
  
“Well, because he risked himself to come and warn me about danger in Hogwarts before our second year,” said Harry. “The danger was your father and the Chamber of Secrets, but I didn’t know that. I could tell how awful it must be, though. He endangered my life a few times, and it was hard to forgive him for that, but then I got the chance to free him. And he _stayed_ free. He wasn’t like any other house-elf.”  
  
“So it would all be all right if something different happened to other house-elves?”  
  
“I don’t understand you. And I don’t think that other elves have to be like Dobby. Kreacher isn’t, and I still like him.”  
  
Draco turned and gave that devastated glare at his plate again. Harry rolled his eyes and drank as much of the wine that Draco had set in front of him as he could.  
  
“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong or not?”  
  
“I want to,” Draco said. “And yet I don’t want to. Because I think it’s going to make you hate me again.”  
  
Harry swallowed. “You said that you wanted to be honest with me.”  
  
“Yeah.” Draco sighed hard enough to make the flames of the candles in front of him sway. Then he stood up. “Come to the library, Harry. I have a lot of things to tell you, but I have to start _showing_ you there.”  
  
Harry stood slowly in return, feeling his stomach orbit despite or maybe because of all the rich food he’d eaten. This sounded weirdly like the things Rob had told him. But Harry couldn’t imagine there was anything he couldn’t forgive Draco for. He’d forgiven him for having a living Horcrux portrait of Old Harry, after all.  
  
“Draco?”  
  
“Please come with me, Harry. Please.”  
  
In silence, Harry followed him, and he was definitely regretting eating as much now. All of it seemed to be bunching in his throat, waiting for the chance to come out.  
  
 _I wish dinner hadn’t been so formal. I wish I knew what he was going to tell me._


	35. Perspectives

Draco had chosen the most formal sitting room to have their discussion in. That didn’t reassure Harry any more than anything else had so far. He found himself sitting on the literal edge of his chair, tapping his foot so hard that the chair swayed beneath and behind him.  
  
Draco then busied himself with wine and food, despite the formal dinner they’d just had. Harry finally snapped, “So are you going to tell me about this horrible secret or not?”  
  
The chair Draco sat on snapped backwards and then forwards again. Draco swallowed and asked, “What makes you so certain it’s horrible?”  
  
“Oh, the way you’re avoiding my eyes and staring at the carpet and the way you didn’t tell me before was a _clue_.”  
  
Draco shut his eyes. “Yes, it’s bad. But I’m still thinking of the right words to tell you.” A beat of silence passed, while Harry scowled at him and Draco sat with a little sandwich in his hand that the cucumber was slipping out of. Harry almost wanted to see the slice of cucumber fall and splat his robes with butter.  
  
Then Draco opened his eyes and spoke in a voice as neutral as the clicking of a clock. “You haven’t asked me much about the last ten years.”  
  
“I know that you were brewing potions and working with Old Harry,” Harry said. “And helping him blackmail Aurors. I thought that was enough to be going on with.”  
  
Draco touched the back of his neck and his cheek with one hand. He was staring into the fire now. “And you think I spent all my time doing those things?”  
  
Harry paused. Then he shrugged. “I have no idea how much of your time they would take. And the way you’re still obsessed with _me_ suggests they were pretty big concerns.”  
  
“I had my own life. I—it became horrible through no one’s fault but my own. But you could have asked where my friends are. Where my parents are. Why I dwell alone in this house and look at the walls.”  
  
“Do you look at the walls? I don’t _know_.” Harry tugged at his hair and thought of the tears shimmering in Teddy’s eyes. “I didn’t even think of my godson and what he must have lost until you suggested it. There are still too many things I need to sort through and survive, and every time I start to concentrate on one of them, five others pop out. I’m sorry I didn’t ask. But I’ll be upset if you hold it against me.”  
  
Draco finally nodded. “All right. The truth is, I had a horrendous argument with my father a year after the war.”  
  
“What kind of argument?” Harry couldn’t picture what would make Lucius Malfoy and Draco argue, unless Lucius had wanted Draco to get married and he didn’t want to.  
  
“The kind where you can’t forgive each other,” Draco whispered. “The words he spat at me, and the last spell he used…I didn’t know how far his obsession over my safety had gone.”  
  
“What was the spell meant to do?” Harry found himself shivering, although Draco had simply gone still, staring at the little sandwich he still held.  
  
“It would have turned me into a stone statue and the room we stood in into a maze. Then he would have been the only one who could find me and wake me up.” Draco swallowed and watched as if he was mesmerized while the cucumber slice finally slid free of the sandwich. “It would have kept me safe forever, or at least until he could find a wife to bind me to. That’s what he was shouting.”  
  
The cucumber slice did make a little splat of butter on Draco’s robes. Harry found that didn’t comfort him at all.  
  
“How could he think that would be for the _best_?”  
  
“Because he’d started to get paranoid.” Draco’s eyes shifted back to Harry. “He rarely left the Manor anymore. He kept telling me he didn’t understand why I left it either, when house-elves could go to the shops and bring us anything we wanted. Let’s stay here and wait out the siege. That was his mentality.”  
  
“Siege?”  
  
“Muggleborns. Anyone with ties to the Muggle world. Eventually, anyone without a Dark Mark on their arms.” Draco winced. “He started distrusting my mother because she’d never officially been branded. I heard them fighting. He said she couldn’t understand what we’d been through because she never became a Death Eater.”  
  
Harry tried to wrap his head around that. The woman who had lied to Voldemort to save her son and lived with him in the house for a year had somehow suffered less than the man who had been Marked?  
  
Yes, it sounded like Lucius _had_ been paranoid.  
  
“What made him that way?” Harry asked. “I mean, was he paranoid right after the trials, too?” He wanted to say that was impossible, but he didn’t know, because he didn’t _remember_.  
  
Draco shook his head dismally. “As far as I know, it wasn’t until he started researching ways to keep us safe after the war. Which, to him, meant we had to get back our power and prestige, or the Ministry would find ways to take our money and even our house-elves.” He grimaced at Harry for a second. “Granger’s crusade didn’t help in that respect.”  
  
Harry shook his head in turn. “I wouldn’t know.”  
  
Draco paused, head tilting, and nodded. “Right. So. I struck back as hard as I could when he cast that spell. I was trying to shout _Finite_ and another spell at the same time. One that would stop him, slow him down. The Crystalline Curse. It encloses the victim in a shell of crystal and keeps him suspended there like the Draught of Living Death.” Draco paused again.  
  
“What happened?” But Harry thought he could feel the shadow of the answer looming over them.  
  
Draco closed his eyes. “The spells overlapped. Plus, I think some of the incantation of the _Finite_ got mixed in with the others. You know that spells have an effect on the world because of the sound of their words and the way they mix? And what can happen if several spells are all spoken at once, but none are complete before the others start to take effect?”  
  
“Maybe I knew once. I don’t know now.”  
  
“Then I’m going to have to explain more than I thought I was. Give me a minute.”  
  
Harry did. Draco was staring at his sandwich and the butter on his robes. He wiped at it, drew his wand, and cast a Cleaning Charm.  
  
Then he whispered, “The effects of spells crossing like that are never predictable. They turned my father into a mixture of stone and crystal, and they left him frozen there with his mouth open. But his head was still human. And all around him were stone walls that were closing in, ready to crush him to death.  
  
“I tried to save him. But I was still so angry that I couldn’t mean it enough to dissipate the spell effects. I wasn’t putting in enough power to protect him.”  
  
“What did you do?”  
  
Harry didn’t recognize his own voice, it was so small and so tight. Draco turned his head a little towards him, as if acknowledging the sound of that different voice, but didn’t open his eyes.  
  
“I cast a spell that would transport my father’s essence into the nearest living being. I thought that was me. I knew I could share my body with him for a while without going mad. I know Occlumency. That kind of shielding can protect a Legilimens from someone who’s followed him back into his own mind. It ought to have protected me from my father’s thoughts and spirit until I could free his body.”  
  
Harry thought it was something Draco had hoped would happen, rather than something that stood a good chance, but he kept silent.  
  
“But one of the house-elves had popped in to try and help while I was—distracted. And my father’s essence went into him.”  
  
Harry jerked. No wonder the house-elf’s eyes had looked so much like Draco’s, the same shape and size and color.  
  
“And then the moment of magic was done, and my chance to reverse the curse easily. My father’s body was both stone and crystal—a statue. I still have it in one of the upper rooms. I don’t know if I can disenchant it. I’ve talked to magical theory experts about it as a hypothetical case, and none of them have been encouraging. And the house-elf—I know my father’s essence has mingled with his, and they’re probably one being now. My mother fled when she found out what I’d done, and I don’t know if she would come back on the promise of trying.”  
  
Harry was silent. Then he asked, “Do you think that you could reverse the enchantment and get your father back into his body with outside help?”  
  
“Who would I trust enough to help?” Draco whispered. “And there’s something else—something I’m afraid of.”  
  
He kept silent in turn. Harry waited. And Draco finally looked at him and said it.  
  
“In that moment I was so angry—I hated him so much—I don’t know if even now I have enough good feeling for him to reverse the transformation. Or if it my magic would have no effect, or do something even worse, because I—”  
  
He bowed his head. After a moment that felt as though it lasted six times as long as any of the others, Harry reached out and took Draco’s hand.  
  
“Thank you,” Draco said, his voice hoarse, and Harry knew what he meant without having to ask.  
  
“I can’t promise that I would be able to help you, or someone else you asked might be able to help you,” Harry said, when they’d sat there a few more minutes in silence. “But I think you ought to try.”  
  
“What good would it do now?” Draco asked. “My father has probably been consumed by the house-elf, his body probably can’t be turned back, and if he was turned back, brought back, whatever, he would hate me.”  
  
“And you still don’t want to confront the hatred that you think you have for him,” Harry murmured.  
  
Draco looked away.  
  
“I think you should try because it’s troubling you,” Harry said. “Not because I think I owe him in particular a debt. Just that it would ease your sleep.” He hesitated, then continued slowly, “I don’t know how much help I would be. Would you consider consulting any of the magical theory experts again, if you could tell them in more detail about the situation and request their help?”  
  
Draco shook his head slowly. “Most of them would be bound to report me to the Ministry, because the Ministry employs them. Magical theorists can’t spend their time studying and doing nothing else unless they’re independently wealthy--like me--or someone supports them to buy books and conduct experiments.”  
  
“Why did you react so badly to the idea of him wanting you to marry?”  
  
Draco sighed. “Of course you go straight to the one question that I’d have liked to delay answering.”  
  
Harry couldn’t find it in him to really apologize for that, and so sat silent and waited. Draco stared out the window for a moment, at what looked like an enchanted vision of rain falling. Then he turned around.  
  
Harry recoiled a little before the sheer light in his eyes.  
  
“You’re it,” Draco whispered. “You’ve always been it for me, even when I realized that you—I mean Old Harry—would probably never ask me for anything except the potions he wanted me to brew. The feeling solidified after the trial. You were the only one who went out of your way to do something like that for me.”  
  
“But then Old Harry returned your wand the way he did,” Harry pointed out, feeling as if he had entered a dream.  
  
“He did. I told myself I should have broken free of my—concern for him after that.” Draco glanced down as if he could still see the butter spot on his robes. “I tried. But it only resulted in wondering what he was doing at any given moment, and eventually I responded to his letters about the potions.”  
  
Harry shook his head slowly. Draco sighed back at him and munched the pieces of dry bread left over from the sandwich, then reached for another one. Harry thought he was probably hungry. He certainly hadn’t eaten much at their meal.  
  
“I’m fucked in the head,” Draco said in a conversational tone. “I know that well enough. It’s one of the reasons I’ve been so eager to talk to you and help you, especially when the news started coming out about what Old Harry was _really_ like. You were fucked in the head, too, so I thought you wouldn’t disdain me.”  
  
“That’s—cold,” said Harry. But he couldn’t deny it was true.  
  
Draco gave him a twisted smile. “But true.”  
  
“All right, then.” Harry wrenched his mind back to the problem of Lucius Malfoy with an effort. He wanted to help Draco, but at the same time, he hoped it wasn’t going to end up in another problem with the both of them. “You said _most_ magical theory experts were employed by the Ministry. What about the ones that aren’t?”  
  
“Several of them are among the victims that you blackmailed.”  
  
Harry closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m messing this up for you all over the place, aren’t I?” he muttered.  
  
“Yes, I _absolutely_ think that you conspired to alienate the people I would have approached about this problem if I’d ever wanted to, and then got your memories destroyed so they would hate you,” Draco drawled. “This is the last remnant of the attitude Old Harry had that he was responsible and horrible if he didn’t live up to someone’s image of a hero, isn’t it? Well, _get rid of it_. I won’t _tolerate_ it.”  
  
“All right,” Harry said, more than startled. He blinked at Draco, who gave him a single small smile. “But—fine. Any magical theorists you can think of who wouldn’t be outraged the moment you approached them?”  
  
“One, maybe.”  
  
“Who?”  
  
“Fleur Weasley.”  
  
Harry felt his jaw drop open. “I didn’t know she was a magical theorist.”  
  
“You haven’t asked that many questions about the Weasleys since you opened your eyes. I suppose you saw them as the one unchanging constant in a world of change.”  
  
“Oh, come off it,” Harry muttered, knowing he was blushing but not how to stop it. “You know I’m aware of how things have changed. Ginny let me know right away how much I’d loved her.”  
  
“Pretended to love her.” Draco sat up and glared for another reason.  
  
Harry rolled his eyes. “Fine. You don’t seem to have any doubts about Fleur’s skill, or you wouldn’t have suggested approaching her. What’s the problem?”  
  
“She might feel morally obliged to report me to the Ministry herself, once she learns what I’ve turned my father into.”  
  
“If I can frame it as a favor for me, probably not,” Harry muttered, thinking rapidly. “I can’t guarantee it, but at least she’ll hesitate. Do you know what kinds of magical theory she mostly investigates?”  
  
“Those having to do with magical creatures, which I suppose makes sense given her heritage.” Draco folded his arms with a sigh. “And with the involvement of a house-elf, she makes a better choice than some of the others anyway. She probably at least regards house-elves as deserving of basic consideration, if she wants to live in the same family as Granger.”  
  
“Probably,” Harry said. He knew his voice was absent, and Draco looked at him out of the corner of one eye for it, but he was still trying to consider what this meant. “Do you think you can master your hatred enough to go along with it?”  
  
“That’s the question I’ve asked and considered and not answered for years,” Draco whispered.  
  
“Well, you have to answer it now,” said Harry, as kindly as he could. “Or there’s no real reason for anyone to help you.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
Draco stared down at his clenched fists, and seemed to meditate. Harry didn’t hurry him. He wouldn’t have felt right about it even if he could. He just waited, looking now and then at the fire, and now and then at the butter spot he thought was still there on Draco’s robes.  
  
Finally, Draco looked up. “I can give details. I can brew any potions the process needs. And if it turns out that I can’t be neutral enough about my father to really _help,_ then I’ll leave the room as soon as Weasley starts the ritual.”  
  
“Good,” Harry said softly.   
  
“I can’t believe you’re sitting there so calmly!” The words seemed to spring out of Draco like water from behind a dam. “I mean, instead of telling me how horrible I am for cursing my father that way.”  
  
“It was an accident, from the way you described it—”  
  
“Not doing anything about it in the years since wasn’t.”  
  
Harry shook his head. “What kind of position am I in to scold anyone for their mistakes and their stupid emotions, Draco? I think it says you’re a good enough person to be going on with, that you’re willing to correct it now after years of not trying. You’d be a better one if you’d done it right away,” he had to add. “But without me involved, there’s a good chance Fleur would have said no, anyway.”  
  
Draco nodded. “It still sounds like you’re making excuses for me.”  
  
“Then that’s the way it sounds,” Harry said roughly. “I want to help you do this, and that’s all that should matter right now.”  
  
From the searching glance Draco gave him, it wasn’t the only thing that mattered to Draco. But Harry kept his face still and stern, and Draco finally nodded, reluctant though it was. “Fine. Then let’s begin tomorrow.”  
  
Harry nodded back, and listened to the silence that fell between them.  
  



	36. The Trap Ritual

When Harry got done describing the situation with Draco and his father and the house-elf, Fleur was silent for a long, long time. Harry took the chance to look around Shell Cottage. It hadn’t changed that much from his memories of it during the war, but of course he knew that meant next to nothing. It didn’t speak to how much Bill and Fleur’s lives had changed in the meantime, and the births of three children would have altered them a lot.  
  
Fleur finally looked at him, her eyes calm and measuring. “I wouldn’t do this for anyone except you, Harry,” she said.  
  
“I know,” Harry said.  
  
“It is—a complicated case.” Fleur tapped her fingers on the arm of her chair and then stopped, looking a little embarrassed. Harry thought he knew why. She didn’t want to show interest about something that must seem like such a troubling and Dark case, but she was interested anyway.  
  
Harry smiled a little as he said, “That’s part of what kept Draco from going to other magical theorists for so long. And he still wants to be sure that you aren’t going to betray him to the Ministry immediately.”  
  
Fleur raised her hands, then dropped them. “It has been, what, ten years? And he is now seeking to redress this. And the Ministry has not always been kind.”  
  
For an instant, her mouth tightened, and her hand moved up to touch her long, silvery hair. Harry nodded slowly. It didn’t surprise him that some people in the Ministry were still as upset about magical creatures getting any rights as ever. Or maybe Fleur was just tired of people endlessly drooling over her as a Veela.  
  
“If he asks me to use any Dark Arts, I will not,” Fleur continued, her accent strengthening for a moment. “But I will do what I can to save his father and free him from the house-elf. For the father’s sake, and the elf’s.”  
  
Harry nodded. “I knew you would see the elf’s side.” It was no use asking Draco to see it that way, and Harry hadn’t tried. On the other hand, it didn’t surprise him that Fleur would.  
  
Fleur looked straight at him for a second, her eyes troubled. “Has he told you what he intends to do if he restores his father? In that case, he would no longer be the legal owner of the Malfoy lands and gold. Would he willingly give that up, do you think? Or would he do something to sabotage the ritual at the last moment?”  
  
Harry blinked. That wasn’t something he’d considered. He supposed Malfoy must have told the Ministry his father had disappeared and left everything to him. Or died.  
  
If there had ever been any investigations. Harry thought most people wouldn’t have shed that many tears for a former Death Eater.  
  
“I haven’t talked to him about it,” he said slowly. “But if he made the commitment to bring his father back, I think _Draco_ must have considered it. That means he’ll be prepared.”  
  
Fleur gave an unimpressed snorting sound. “It seems to me, that everything is being handled on assumptions,” she said. “Even your memory was so, when they thought you would remember certain things and you did not. If you want to make an assumption, you may make it on something I have nothing to do with. You will ask Mr. Malfoy about this before I make a real ritual.”  
  
Harry blinked a little, and then he nodded. “All right.”  
  
Fleur eyed him once more, then seemed to relax. “But I may work with the theory before the actual outlines,” she said, and reached down into a box standing beside her chair. Harry watched her pull out a large piece of parchment with several small holes burned into it. “I may do _this_.”  
  
She unrolled the paper on the table; it opened like a scroll. For a moment, she sat in front of it with her eyes half-closed, as if she was trying to remember what to do with it. Harry could see faint brown lines between the holes when he looked, but he couldn’t tell what pattern they formed. Maybe a spiderweb, in the center of the page?  
  
At last Fleur opened her eyes and began to trace the quill in her hand over the paper. Some of the lines she made followed the spiderweb’s; others seemed to spiral off into nothingness. Harry leaned closer and tried again to see a pattern, and still he couldn’t. He had to sit back with a blink and a shake of his head.  
  
He would have questioned Fleur about what she was doing, but her face was so rapt that he didn’t like to. He sat still instead, and watched as her hand moved without a rest or lifting from the parchment. She only stopped to shake her wrist when the parchment was mostly covered with black and gleaming lines, and Harry thought she’d created a painting.  
  
Fleur only looked at him patiently when he told her that. “No,” she said. “This is a ritual that must encompass much about your life, yes? You want to free Malfoy’s father from entrapment in the house-elf, but from what he said, that happened partially because of his obsession with you.”  
  
“Yes,” Harry said slowly, not seeing what she was getting at.  
  
Fleur nodded. “Then to free his father from the house-elf, we must trap and _sever_ the pattern that bound him there. Malfoy’s emotions about you are part of that. And your life has been complex of late.” For a moment, her fingers danced on the parchment, and then she smiled a little and pulled her hand back. “You have your enemies like Kelvin, and you have the lost memories, and you have the entanglement with Malfoy and the disappointment of Ron and Hermione that you do not have your memories back.” She paused and touched a single thick line that sprang from one side of the paper to another without crossing any of the ones in between. Harry blinked again as he looked at it. He had thought the paper was so crowded that there was no possible way one of those could exist. “And there is something else involved that you have not told me. What is this?”  
  
Harry stared at the line. “I have no idea. I don’t know anything about magical theory.”  
  
“But this is an image of something in your life that complicates the matter further.” Fleur folded her arms and gave him an unimpressed look. “Or perhaps Malfoy’s life, but it is tied to your magic. I know you did not lose your magic with your memories, no? What is it?”  
  
Harry winced. He probably did know, but he didn’t know if he wanted to let the knowledge out even to Fleur.  
  
On the other hand, if he couldn’t trust the Weasleys to keep his secret, he was probably already betrayed. He said slowly, “The wand I’ve been using for the past few weeks is the Elder Wand. An attack from one of my enemies snapped my holly one, and this time, the Elder Wand refused to heal it.”  
  
Fleur’s eyes widened the more he spoke, and Harry almost thought she would move her chair further away from him. Then she shook her head a little, pursed her lips, and said, “That would explain it.” She looked at the chart, or whatever it really was, again.  
  
“Does that mean I need to go back and explain other things?” Harry added apprehensively. He supposed he could see why, if she was sketching something she saw like an aura, unexpected changes would mess things up.  
  
“I cannot see anything else that looks so independent from the local patterns,” said Fleur, and smiled at him for a moment. Her fingers danced above the parchment again, and then she bent attentively down towards the holes and nodded. “Yes, even they are in alignment.” She faced Harry, and her face was relaxed. “But you understand what this means? This ritual must draw _everything_ together. We must have your enemies trapped and the emotions in you and your Malfoy soothed at the same time as we try to bring Lucius Malfoy back from the house-elf.”  
  
“No, I _didn’t_ know that,” Harry said, when he could force the words past what felt like a block in his throat. “How can—you can’t just stand there and tell me that, right? There’s a way that you think you’re going to make it come true!”  
  
Fleur winked at him. “Yes. I can make it come true when we bring together the pattern of the ritual. And I am glad I spoke,” she added simply as she started rolling up the parchment. “It would be horrible if you did not know all this and then only found out when we were in the middle of doing the ritual.”  
  
“How can we put it together? How can that parchment tell you what the ritual needs to be like? I don’t understand _that_.”  
  
Fleur laughed. “And you could not understand all of it without a lot more training in magical theory than you have had the time to receive! I just want to make sure that you understand why you need to be honest with me, and tell me about things like that.” She nodded towards his sleeve that held the Elder Wand. “And when it comes time for you to make your steps in the ritual, that I can tell you what you need to do.”  
  
Harry thought about that. “That’s why you need honesty from Draco, too. Because he needs to follow the steps?”  
  
Fleur dipped her head low enough for her long hair to partially pool on the table. “And if he cannot be honest, if he cannot confront the feelings for his father that you told me about, or if his negative ones, they are stronger than his desire to bring Mr. Malfoy back…then he needs to stay out of the ritual.” She looked at the parchment with faint exasperation. “And I will need to draw a new one of these. Right now, this is predicated on the understanding that Malfoy—Draco—would be part of the dance.”  
  
Harry rose to his feet, feeling as though he had shed several kilograms of iron chain. Even with the challenge that Draco himself had admitted existed, and the complexity of the ritual, at least Fleur had agreed to try. “Thank you. I’ll tell him.”  
  
*  
  
“I thought there would be a less complex method of getting my father out of the house-elf,” Draco whispered, when Harry had gone through everything Fleur had done that afternoon and explained what she was concerned about. “And after what I did to him…I think he’ll probably kick me out of the house and change his will the instant he gets back to himself. Assuming we can _bring_ him back to himself, of course.”  
  
Draco sounded so shocked and subdued that Harry got up from behind the library table where he’d sat to read and came to sit beside him. “Then I suppose you’ll have to face your feelings before the ritual begins after all,” he said. “Fleur thinks we need to create a ritual that will trap, or net, all the influences and things that have gone wrong in the last little while. And I’m part of it because of the way you feel towards me.”  
  
Draco’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I suppose the ritual doesn’t happen to include a requirement that we have orgasmic sex with each other?”  
  
“No.” Harry hesitated. Then he said, “If you lose Malfoy Manor and your place in your father’s will, you can come live with me.”  
  
Draco stared at him. “But—it’s going to take money to repair and cleanse Grimmauld Place. You said.”  
  
“I still have some of that. Not even Old Harry, or me in the last few months, ran through the whole thing. And if the ritual traps all the enemies that are hunting me, then I don’t have to shelter behind heavy wards to foil them.”  
  
Draco reached out and squeezed Harry’s hand. Harry felt how _his_ hand was shaking, and smiled as sympathetically as he could. Draco bowed his head and whispered, “So I need to solve a question that I haven’t been able to answer for almost ten years in a few days.”  
  
“Yes. I’m sorry,” Harry added, when Draco lifted his head and stared at him with bleak eyes. “If I could do something else, I would. You know that.”  
  
“Yes.” Draco folded his hands tight in his lap and sat with his eyes closed. “Can you leave me alone for a while? I think I need solitude to decide this.”  
  
Harry touched his shoulder and stood up. “I’ll be outside with Royal,” he said. “He’s upset that I haven’t spent more time with him. I know he was considering eating my finger instead of breakfast this morning.”  
  
“He _always_ looks like he’s about to eat someone’s finger,” Draco muttered, but he didn’t open his eyes, keeping his head bowed, and Harry understood that he wouldn’t be able to simply joke it off this time.  
  
Harry nodded and departed through the door that led out to the gardens. Royal was already circling overhead, and he came blazing down the minute he saw Harry. He didn’t land on his shoulder, though he looked like he would, but after a playful swipe at Harry’s eyes, he took up a perch on a stone wall.  
  
“Would you eat Draco’s fingers?” Harry asked him, for the lack of any other question to ask.  
  
Royal turned his head to the side, which was his version of being coy. Harry rolled his eyes and took a small box from his pocket. One of the house-elves had caught a mouse for him that morning, though with a lot of doubtful glances, as if he thought that Harry would scold him for a mouse being anywhere around the Manor.  
  
“Yes, I thought you’d like it,” Harry said, and opened the box to release the mouse. It leaped into the grass and scurried away so fast that Harry lost sight of it. Royal turned his head to apparently watch it go.  
  
Then he stuck his head beneath his wing.  
  
Harry stared at him with his mouth open, knowing he was being silly and undignified, but stunned anyway. “You—you’re going to _pretend_ that you care about mice and then not do anything about them?” he asked.  
  
Royal rustled his tail feathers.  
  
“Well, that’s the last time I try to do anything for _you_ , then,” Harry said with a roll of his eyes, and started to turn away.  
  
He saw movement from the corner of his eye and promptly rolled and ducked, his arm coming around his head in a defensive tuck. But it wasn’t Royal coming after him. It was him unfolding his immense wings and storming over the grass, then coming down in a perfect dive that ended with the mouse clamped in one talon.  
  
Harry stood up with a small shake of his head, his breath still coming faster than he’d like. “You knew where the mouse was all the time,” he said. “Didn’t you.”  
  
Royal looked at him with his head still coyly cocked to the side, then started dissecting the mouse with his beak. Harry moved up beside him and stood there with his hands in the pockets of his robes, watching the wind ruffle the grass. Now and then it bobbed the flowers, too, and Harry saw the quick, darting head of what he thought was one of the white Malfoy peacocks.  
  
He tried not to look at them too hard. He didn’t want Royal getting ideas in his head about _them_.  
  
It felt odd, standing here. A different owl at his side, a place he couldn’t have imagined visiting willingly in his former life and which Old Harry had visited for entirely different reasons, and strange motivations working themselves out in his heart and mind. He wanted Draco to decide to help his father. Harry could remember a time when he would have thought Azkaban was the proper place for both Draco _and_ his father.  
  
 _What would Old Harry think?_  
  
Harry snorted a little. Well, he thought he could imagine it now. He understood the twisted way Old Harry’s mind worked. He would have _thought_ he should condemn both Malfoys, and would have writhed in his conscience because he was using Draco’s Potions skills instead of arresting him, and he would have used them anyway.  
  
“Thank Merlin I’m not him anymore,” he told Royal.  
  
Royal twisted his head in a different way, this time saying it was all very interesting, but he had small bones to crunch here.  
  
*  
  
“I think I can do it.”  
  
Harry started. He’d actually come back into the house and had the house-elves show him into the dining room for dinner—although to his relief, the grey-eyed one wasn’t one of the elves ordering him about—and hadn’t thought he would see Draco for a few more hours.  
  
But Draco collapsed into the chair next to Harry now and snatched up a plate full of roast duck and rice and started eating it as if he hadn’t eaten anything since the day before. Harry planted his elbow on the table and gazed at him.  
  
Draco glared at the elbow. “That’s horrible manners, Harry.”  
  
“So’s eating so I can see every bite,” Harry retorted. “Well?”  
  
“Well what?”  
  
“What made you change your mind?”  
  
Draco ate for a few more minutes in silence. Harry let him. At least he was eating more slowly now, and Harry didn’t have to decide whether he wanted to look at chewed duck and rice or the wall.  
  
“I can do it because it’s the first time in years that something in my life has offered the potential for so much change,” Draco whispered. “I thought about Father kicking me out of the Manor once he has his body back, and…the main thing I felt was relief at the thought of living with you instead.”  
  
Harry relaxed a little. “You took me in. The least I can do is take you in.”  
  
Draco looked up abruptly at him. “But I don’t want to be a ‘least you can do.’”  
  
Harry reached out and caught his hand. “Then you won’t be. We’ll find our way together.”  
  
They sat like that for an absurdly long time, holding hands, while Draco used his free one to eat and normal house-elves appeared and watched them and vanished again, and Royal patrolled somewhere overhead.


	37. Drama in the Rain

“Master Harry.”  
  
Harry woke so suddenly that it was as if someone had jerked him out of slumber. But when he sat up, the only one at the end of the bed, staring at him with alert eyes, was the Lucius house-elf.  
  
 _Thinking of him as the grey-eyed house-elf might be better,_ Harry decided irrelevantly, and gasped, “What is it?” The Elder Wand already buzzed in his hand, although he couldn’t remember picking it up.  
  
“There is someone here to save you.” The elf bowed, and Harry tried not to think about echoes of Lucius in that motion, if they were even there. He could probably drive himself more insane looking for them.  
  
“Who?” Harry swung his legs out of bed and reached for the clock that stood on the table beside the bed, ignoring the humming of the Elder Wand as it begged him to cast a _Tempus_ Charm. He wasn’t going to use the evil thing until he had to.  
  
It was three in the morning. Harry’s stomach coiled with tension. If it was one of the Weasleys, it had to be serious.  
  
“He is announcing his name as Rob.”  
  
Harry groaned and buried his head in his hands. The elf was staring at him when he looked up again. Harry knew it—he—was probably wondering what in the world was wrong with a wizard who groaned at the simple naming of a guest.  
  
Harry, meanwhile, was wondering what was wrong with Rob. Harry didn’t return his letters, didn’t respond well to his confessions, cast spells on him, and wouldn’t agree to be his lover. Did he need a literal kick in the arse before he would decide that this reawakened Harry wasn’t the perfect one for him?  
  
“Does Master Harry want me to send him away?” asked the elf, when Harry had sat there staring at his hands and hating this particular part of his life for a while.  
  
Harry gave the deepest sigh he could fetch, mostly for his own sake, and stood up. “I want to meet him,” he said. “But outside the Manor. And I want you with me, standing behind me but out of sight of Rob, in case he gets violent. Can you follow those instructions?”  
  
The elf looked more than slightly offended. “I will follow my orders, Master Harry,” he said with dignity. “Master Malfoy is not wanting this Rob to come onto the Manor grounds. The rest will not be a problem.”  
  
Harry smiled a little. He wondered when exactly Draco had given those orders to his elves, and decided that he didn’t need to know. “Right. Then show me where he is.” He held out his hand, and after a moment to eye him further and seemingly decide that Harry was as sane as he would get, the elf nodded and took his hand.  
  
The sensation of Apparition got no better when an elf was doing it. Harry opened his eyes in a dark, rainy field. He cursed softly and set up an Impervious Charm over his head, then cast a drying one on his clothing.  
  
“Harry?”  
  
It was Rob’s voice, all right. But Harry was glad that he had a house-elf waiting behind him, given some of the things Rob had done in the past. “Yes, I’m here,” he said with resignation, stepping forwards. “Why did you decide to come and bother me, Rob? I’ve made it clear I don’t want to be with you.”  
  
“I came to reject you forever.”  
  
That made Harry a little happier. But still… “You couldn’t have done that with an owl? Then we could both have stayed inside, at least.”  
  
Rob turned around and stared at him. He had wide eyes, but Harry couldn’t see much more in the darkness. “Did you think I _wanted_ things to end like this?” he demanded. “But since you imposed these terms on me, you’re the one who has to put up with them.”  
  
Harry held back the urge to roll his own eyes. He folded his arms. “Right. Get on with it.”  
  
“You’re ruining the _mood_.” But after a moment of stalking back and forth with his arms folded and his frown directed more at the elements than Harry, Rob seemed to decide that wasn’t important. He turned and faced Harry. “No one has ever treated me as badly as you did.”  
  
Knowing some of what Old Harry had done could still make Harry flinch. He nodded and said, “I’m sorry.” That ought to be safe, considering Rob had summoned him specifically to reject him.   
  
“Not even _him._ He was the one I loved and who insisted we had to keep our relationship secret and break up so he could date someone else for his strange pretense of _normality_. But you still hurt me worse, since you woke up without your memories.”  
  
 _Oh, this ought to be good._ Harry was wise enough not to say that aloud, though, and a little shocked at himself for thinking it. He only blinked at Rob, hoped he looked like he made sense, and said nothing.  
  
“You were the one who’d gone back to the man I first fell in love with,” Rob whispered. He was once again gazing off into the darkness, and Harry wondered what he saw there. It sure as hell wasn’t Harry, the person. “And I thought, well, I’ll give you time. You couldn’t even remember the time when you found men attractive. You weren’t going to take up the life and marriage that _he_ had. I would let you come back to yourself and then decide how you would reconcile your crimes and the like.  
  
“And then I found out you don’t intend to reconcile those crimes. Just leave them behind like clothes you’ve outgrown. And you moved in with another man, and you’re lovers with him from what I can tell.”  
  
 _Then you can’t tell much._ But Rob spun to face him just then, and demanded, “I’m right, aren’t I? You’ve gone back to Malfoy, someone you used to _conspire_ with, and decided he’s a better person than I am!”  
  
“I don’t think he’s a better person morally,” Harry said, thinking of the mistakes Draco had made. And the lies he’d told, and the Horcrux portrait, and how long it had taken him to decide that he could actually rescue his father. “I think he’s better-suited for me to spend my life with, though.”  
  
For a second, there was silence except for the rain dripping between them, and Harry didn’t have to see the stunned expression on Rob’s face to _feel_ it.  
  
 _Well. I didn’t know I was going to say that. It’s like one of those words you know until someone asks you to define it. Except in reverse._  
  
“You’re right,” Rob whispered at last. “I was a fool to come here. I didn’t want—I wanted to get an apology from you. And I see now that we’re different. Maybe the man I loved was always an illusion, no matter if he was Old Harry or you. Because you’re not _moral_ enough to accept being with someone who actually loves you, and just wants you to be a better person.”  
  
Harry sighed and didn’t roll his eyes, because he thought Rob would probably hear that in his voice even though he was facing the opposite way. “I don’t know what I can say to change your mind or even if I should, Rob. I’m not going to date you again, or fall in love with you. I hope you can make your peace with that however you want.”  
  
Rob turned around. His face was strained, but in the low light of the charm that had started glowing on his wand, he looked more human and less dramatic than he had sounded when he was reciting Harry’s crimes.  
  
“Do you know how painful it is,” he whispered, “to think you have your second chance come to life, and then have it snatched away again?”  
  
“I don’t know exactly how painful _that_ is,” said Harry, and made his voice as calm and steady as he could. “But I do know that I have to learn how to live my life again, and nothing I’ve learned about you since I woke up has made me decide to spend it with you.”  
  
Rob closed his eyes. “I should have realized. When your memories vanished, they took with them what caused you to love me in the first place.”  
  
“Probably, yeah.” Harry took one glance behind him to make sure the Malfoy house-elf was still there, and then faced forwards again. “I hope you find peace,” he repeated. It sounded like a lame wish, but it wasn’t something he could change.  
  
Rob studied him a few seconds longer, then said, “Tell me one thing. I promise,” he added, maybe because Harry’s eyes had flickered in spite of himself, “this is the _last_ question I’ll ever ask you. I have no desire to bore you, after all.”  
  
“That’s sweet,” Harry said, and put no emotion in his tone. “Ask, then.”  
  
“Have you just given up on being a good person? Or is Malfoy a good match for you for some other reason?”  
  
“I’ve given up because I can’t atone for whatever it was,” Harry said. “No one person knows the whole truth, and my old self hid so many things in so many different places…I might not even have found all of them. What happens if I stumble on a cache of papers years from now that changes the way I feel about things, or even reveals new crimes? What should I do? Go to Azkaban for crimes I can’t remember? Allow my enemies to kill me? You have one idea of how I should repent, but it isn’t the only one. Other people would have different ideas. And the Ministry has all but declined to prosecute me. Maybe because it would make them look bad and have people questioning their past decisions more than because they like me,” Harry had to add. He didn’t _really_ think Kingsley would keep silent just because Old Harry had been his friend. “So I probably couldn’t go to Azkaban even if I wanted to.”  
  
“You didn’t say anything about Malfoy.”  
  
“He was the one who supported me and told me that I didn’t have to go on living in Old Harry’s shadow for the rest of my life.”  
  
“But what you did was _wrong_.”  
  
“Right. And I can spend the rest of my life thinking that and deciding that nothing I could do would be enough to make up for it, for the reasons I just detailed to you. Or I can let go, the way I did of Ginny and my Auror career, and move on with my new life.”   
  
Rob paused. Then he said, “I suppose we just have fundamentally different notions of what it means to do wrong and right.”  
  
“Yes,” Harry agreed, relieved that Rob had managed to put it so simply to himself. “And that means we wouldn’t be good for each other.” He held out his hand. “I meant what I said about allowing yourself to find someone different. Old Harry only chose Ginny because he thought he had to. You hoped he would come back to you, and then you hoped I’d come back to you, out of stubbornness and old love. I think you can find someone better-suited to you. The way I have,” he had to add, when Rob only hung onto his hand and stared at him with searing intensity.  
  
Rob bristled a little. “If you think I was celibate for the last five years, I can assure you that’s _not_ true.”  
  
Harry grinned. “Good. Then you already have a good foundation for being able to move on from me.”  
  
Rob paused again. Harry met his eyes fearlessly. What Rob wanted to see and what was there were obviously different, and Harry wouldn’t make up truths to make him feel better.  
  
“All right,” said Rob, and his voice was defeated. “You already _have_ moved on.”  
  
“Easier when this person I am now feels like he never knew you,” said Harry. He didn’t have to be mean, he thought, just absolutely intent on convincing Rob he was never going to yield to him. And there was a different tone in Rob’s voice now. Harry thought he believed it. “Easier for me to change into someone else altogether.”  
  
Rob started to speak, stopped. They stood there in the rain for long enough that Harry considered pulling his hand away and asking the house-elf to take him back to Malfoy Manor. This was probably the end of it, and nothing else either one of them could say would change the other one’s mind, either.  
  
Then Rob whispered, “As long as you _are_ completely different and not the kind of person I would want to be with anyway…it stings less now that you chose Malfoy.” One more hesitation, and then he nodded and let go of Harry’s hand. “I wish you well.”  
  
“Thank you,” Harry said, and waved as Rob walked away from him, looking back only once. When he reached some point known only to him, he Apparated.  
  
Harry turned and held out his hand to the house-elf, wondering once again how much of Lucius Malfoy remained behind the grey eyes fixed on his face. Maybe he would remember this later, and resent it. For now, though…  
  
“Take me home,” he said, and only realized what he had called Malfoy Manor when he had crawled into bed and was trying to fall asleep again.  
  
*  
  
“If you no longer have feelings for this Rob person, then of course that changes the nature of the ritual I have to construct,” said Fleur, and became very busy with the map Harry had taken Draco to see, crossing out one thick black line and adding a series of lighter blue ones with a tiny paintbrush she had nearby.  
  
Harry relaxed and ignored the way Draco studied him. They had talked for a long time that morning about Draco’s father and the way he would have to think when he got to the essential stage of the ritual for breaking Lucius’s mind out of the house-elf. Harry hadn’t wanted to tell him about Rob and their final parting and upset what he thought was a fine balance, or worse, start an argument they no longer needed to have.  
  
“You _do_ no longer have feelings for him?” Draco muttered out of the corner of his mouth.  
  
Harry gave a brief nod, and then shut up, because Fleur was turning to them and clasping her hands on the table in front of her. Her mouth was set, and she spent a moment glancing back and forth between them as if the ritual would begin when they looked at her.  
  
It didn’t, of course. But when she spoke, Harry felt for a moment as if it had, with the air charged with magic and flowing around them. “You should know that the ritual, although simple in conception, will be complicated in execution.” Harry had the sensation she had said those words before, and people hadn’t listened.  
  
He nodded, and Fleur continued with what sounded like less practiced but more hopeful words. “You will need people to help you. Harry, that can be the Weasleys for you. You would have to join with them anyway, to heal the gaps that the ritual proves exist between you.” She nodded at the drawing. Harry wasn’t even going to try to guess which line she’d drawn represented what. “But Malfoy has only one person already involved, yes? And he is the one who needs to be pulled out of the house-elf by the ritual. I do not know what he will do.” She turned to Draco and waited.  
  
Draco ducked his head so that he was looking at the drawing and neither one of them. Fleur made an impatient motion, but Harry put his hand on her arm. She hushed.  
  
Draco finally said, “I’ve abandoned most of the friends I had. They couldn’t take my walking the grey line. Some of them wanted me to go further into Darker magic, and some of them were disgusted that I did anything Dark at all.”  
  
“You must think of someone who would trust you enough to be part of the ritual,” Fleur said. “It will fail, otherwise.”  
  
Draco frowned some more. “Someone who I would also trust with an explanation of what the ritual does?”  
  
“It will be necessary. Of course.”  
  
Draco bowed his head. Again Harry and Fleur waited. This time, though, Harry wasn’t as convinced that they would get a positive answer. Draco was tapping his fingers and fidgeting in his chair.  
  
“It’ll have to be Pansy,” said Draco finally, lifting his head with a frown that Harry longed to smooth away. “She was always telling me I would go too far into the Dark Arts someday and do something I regretted. I stopped talking to her partially because I hated to prove her right. But I think she would come back, if only for the chance to gloat over it. And she wouldn’t report us to the Ministry.”  
  
“Then that will be one,” said Fleur. “You should have house-elves involved, too. The elves who have worked with the one that has your father’s essence and know him as his mingled self. You cannot claim to know him,” she added, when Draco opened his mouth. “Not as he is. Only as he was.”  
  
After a second, Draco nodded. Harry clasped his hand, and they watched Fleur’s face light up with a smile before she stood and glanced at her drawing of the ritual for a moment.   
  
“Then I will begin to prepare the plan,” she said. “And Bill will prepare dinner.” She smiled at them once more before she went through a door into a room that looked like it was crowded with canvas and paints, calling out for Bill.  
  
“What are we doing?” Draco whispered.  
  
“Something not Dark, that will bring your father back. It’s the best thing.”  
  
Draco grunted, as if he didn’t agree but was willing to let Harry convince him, and then he glanced at him with hot, fierce eyes. Harry nodded in silence.   
  
“I told Rob I would never have feelings for him again,” he said. “He finally believed me, and he left. After telling me that I was too wrong morally to be with a person like him anyway.”  
  
“Did he say anything about me?”  
  
“That he couldn’t believe I would choose you over him.” Harry leaned slowly towards him, checking the doors out of the corner of his eye. Bill and Fleur were talking, but neither seemed ready to come back into the room yet. “I finally made him believe that I would, too.”  
  
“Did you?” Draco’s face was pale, except his eyes, which glittered with almost unnatural color. “And was it true, or just a way to make him leave you alone?”  
  
“True,” Harry whispered, and kissed him.  
  
In the way that Draco grabbed hold of him with twisted hands that almost resembled claws, Harry could taste his desperation. But the kiss tasted far more of triumph.  
  



	38. With Hermione

“Are you only talking to me because it’s a requirement of this ritual Fleur designed?”  
  
Caught off-guard, Harry blinked at Hermione. She didn’t blink back. She stood there and regarded him with an absolutely level stare. Harry cleared his throat and felt a bit of a blush start up his neck.  
  
“I would have come and talked to you without it,” he said weakly. “The way I talked to Ron.”  
  
“But it was Fleur who gave you the idea. I noticed that you haven’t sought me out since you talked with Ron.”  
  
Drifting somewhere between truth and awkwardness, Harry stood there helplessly. Hermione finally shook her head, taking him out of it, and turned aside. “Come on. We’ll be here all afternoon if we don’t make a decision. Ron and Rose and Hugo are with Molly,” she added over her shoulder.  
  
Harry followed her into a bright kitchen that seemed unusually still; then he realized he’d never been here (that he remembered) when it was so empty of people. Hermione warmed up some cups of already-made tea and set one in front of him, then sat down in the chair across from him.  
  
“You’re going to need to explain why I should cooperate with this ritual.”  
  
“Are you that angry that I didn’t come and talk to you?” Harry sipped the tea and decided that she wouldn’t have put Veritaserum or anything in it. She would just be very direct and look at him with that disappointed look until he spoke. “I didn’t really come and talk to Ron, either. He was the one who visited me in Malfoy Manor.”  
  
Hermione glanced off to the side, playing with a strand of her hair. “I thought you would come and visit me after that. Within a day or two, at least. No later than that.” Her voice sank. Then she turned back towards him, and Harry saw the intense pain in her face.  
  
“Are we just going to be casualties of your memory loss?” she demanded, and then swiped angrily at her eyes. “I mean—we’re the ones who have to make all the right movements, and you’re the one who gets to walk away from us if you want? If having us around isn’t _convenient_ for you?”  
  
Harry reached out and caught her hand, holding it silently. When he thought Hermione had stopped sniffling and was ready to listen to him, he shook his head. “No,” he said. “I want you to be part of my life. Not just because this is the ritual Fleur was preparing. I want to talk to you the way I did to Ron the other day. I’m sorry I didn’t come before.”  
  
“Someday, an apology isn’t going to be good enough.”  
  
“Then if it isn’t, tell me and I’ll walk away,” Harry said, feeling a ragged, tearing pain in his chest. “I mean—I’d _hate_ to, Hermione. I still want to be friends with you. But I don’t want a friendship that’s going to disintegrate the next time I make a mistake. Either because I’ll give up on it or because you don’t want it anymore.”  
  
 _Not to mention what it could do to the ritual if she goes into it with those complicated feelings._ But he was—just barely—smart enough not to mention that.  
  
“No,” Hermione said, in a whisper that Harry didn’t even feel from where he sat. “No. I want it.”   
  
She stood up and came around the table, standing in front of his chair. She ran her fingers through her hair one more time and then reached out and put her hand on his chair. Then she moved it to his arm.  
  
Harry grabbed it and held it steady.  
  
“I didn’t know until this moment how much I missed you,” Hermione whispered, “because I missed you so much.”  
  
And then she started crying, and Harry learned that his arms were big enough to hold her after all. Even if they weren’t Old Harry’s arms. Even if Hermione was different than she had been, and so was Harry, and there was no way they could be the same.  
  
It was okay. They could survive being different.  
  
*  
  
Maybe ten minutes later, Hermione was sitting down across the table from him again, sometimes still blowing her nose on the handkerchief she’d conjured, and smiling at him in a silly way. Not that Harry minded that. He thought he was probably smiling back in a way just as silly.  
  
“Okay,” Hermione said. “So the most important thing you have to know is that any story Ron told you about our wedding wasn’t true.”  
  
Harry laughed. “And he told me the most important thing was that you would say that.”  
  
“Oh, God.” Hermione ducked her head and put her hands up across her face. “Then you know about the flowers?”  
  
“Yes. And Ginny’s hair.”  
  
“And the way the flames got out of control when Ron gaped at Fleur.”  
  
“And how you made a promise to Molly to name your daughter Rose that you denied remembering the next morning, because you said you were drunk on Ron’s lips and no one should be expected to remember anything after kissing _him_.”  
  
“That is _not_ true!”  
  
Harry sat back and smiled at her. They had memories to share, memories that filled his chest with a soft amber glow, and it felt wonderful.  
  
“I didn’t say that,” Hermione murmured weakly. “I know I didn’t. It’s just so—silly and unlike me.”  
  
“Well, sometimes we need silliness,” said Harry. He stood up and hugged her again. She was already moving before he really thought about it, leaning her head on his shoulder and uttering one more trembling breath.  
  
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you more,” she whispered. “I mean—not that you can remember the times that I missed dinner with you and Ron because I was rushing out to tend some patient who needed my help, but I wish I had even more memories that we could share together. That I could tell you about.”  
  
“We will make the new ones,” Harry said, and decided that it _wouldn’t_ sound silly for him to tell her what one of his worst fears had been. “That was what was worst, you know.” Hermione pulled back and looked a question up at him, and Harry continued. “About the idea of losing your friendship. The thought that we wouldn’t get to make new memories together, things that would actually be a part of my own life as more than stories.”  
  
Hermione lowered her head and nodded. Then she sat back and said with deliberate lightness, “Then I suppose you want to know some of the embarrassing things that _Ron_ did at the wedding?”  
  
Harry grinned and sat down in his chair again, casting the charm that would heat his tea once more. “That would be excellent.”  
  
*  
  
“You always look so happy whenever you’ve spent time with your friends.”  
  
Harry blinked a little and looked up from the book on Arithmancy. To his surprise, Arithmancy was now more interesting to him than Ancient Runes. He couldn’t remember being good at maths in primary school, and he’d never taken the class at Hogwarts, but perhaps a new start had given him new abilities.  
  
“The way your face glows,” Draco said. He had come in and taken a seat in the library without Harry even hearing him. He looked at Harry with a bittersweet smile, swinging his feet back and forth. “You always know where you stand with them, and it’s obvious that you’re _happy_ to stand there. Whereas I don’t think that you’ve decided what to do with me even now.”  
  
He leaned back, hands folded calmly in his lap, but his eyes still showed the storm raging inside him. Harry put aside his book.  
  
“I thought we’d decided that,” he said. “We’re going to live together no matter what happens. We’re going to bring your father back. We’re going to work and laugh together. And make memories,” he added. “That’s part of what made me so happy today. Hermione told me about some things I wouldn’t have wanted to forget, and we made another memory together.”  
  
Draco opened his mouth, then slowly shut it again. “You never stay the same,” he complained.  
  
“What?” Usually Harry knew why Draco was complaining, but in this case, he literally had no idea.  
  
“You were always the same when you were _him_.” Draco looked out the window as if he would find an answer there, but Harry thought he would only see Royal snatching up mice and crunching them. Royal seemed to like to hunt outside the library window when Harry was in there, and sometimes bring him bloody presents and drop them all over whatever book he was currently reading. “You always had the same demands. You always wanted the same things.  
  
“And now you keep changing,” Draco said, and whipped back towards him. “You wanted to be away from your friends. You want to be with them now. You kissed me and made love to me, and then pulled back and said you needed some time, and moved out, and then back in. And you say you want to live with me, but you’ll barely touch me.”  
  
“I’m afraid I’ll keep changing for a little while longer,” Harry had to say in apology. “There’s no way to stop it. I’m just learning what I want to do with my life, and learning to say no when someone asks me to be Old Harry again. I was able to send Rob away, at least, which I didn’t want to do when I woke up.”  
  
“Why _not_?”  
  
“Because I didn’t know what I owed him, and what he could tell me about Old Harry.”  
  
Draco folded his arms. “So you might actually have gone back to loving someone or dating them because you thought you _had_ to?”  
  
Harry nodded. “I might even have come close to it with you. If your connection with Old Harry had been more romantic, and I felt I owed you something.”  
  
Draco’s expression was revulsion so deep that Harry grinned. “I would never want you to do that,” he said. “I don’t know what you—I don’t _want_ to know what kind of compromises you had with Weasley and that idiot you just mentioned. But you’re never going to have that kind of obligation with me.”  
  
“Agreed,” said Harry, standing up, and then he walked around the table and over to where Draco was regarding him with a jaundiced eye. Harry smiled and kissed his hand. “Is this a good start?”  
  
“You did better than that in the Weasleys’ house the other day.”  
  
Harry kissed him on the lips this time, until Draco was lying back over the table with his hands clutching at air. He was too dazed to put them on Harry’s actual shoulders, which Harry thought was a real compliment. He kissed Draco again, long and lovingly, as he pulled back and stood. “Do you think you can accept what I _can_ give you now?” he asked. “And ask if I’m missing something? I don’t always know what you want. And if you don’t want me to feel I owe you something, you need to ask.”  
  
Draco blinked several times before he could get his reactions under control. Then he sat up and nodded regally. “I’ll ask,” he said. “For example, right now I have a request.”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“More kisses like that,” Draco gasped, and drew him back down, into an embrace that more than satisfied them both.  
  
*  
  
“This house-elf of yours is a fascinating study,” said Fleur, bending down to look into the grey-eyed house-elf’s face.  
  
The elf stood perfectly still. Of course he would, Harry thought. He didn’t have any sense that he’d once been a Malfoy, or he probably would have shown it by now. He remained motionless with his hands behind his back, looking straight ahead, while Fleur took some notes and asked some questions.  
  
Hermione sat on the chair near the back wall, looking distressed. Harry knew it was about the elf that might, in a way, be Lucius and not about the ritual. She had _wanted_ to come and look over the ritual when she and Harry had reconciled. She was interested in all aspects of magical theory even though, most of the time, she only had free hours to study Healing magic.  
  
But to hear that a house-elf had been changed by the psychic imprint of a Death Eater was a little much for her.  
  
“What was his name, before you changed him like that?” she asked Draco. Harry, even though he was looking mostly at Fleur and the elf, couldn’t help overhearing.  
  
“We had different names for him,” said Draco in his snottiest voice. “Sometimes he was Tippy, and sometimes Tilly, and sometimes Timmy.”  
  
“That is not true,” said Harry with a sigh. Hermione had turned the color of a tomato, and honestly, she ought to know better than to let Draco wind her up. The Hermione Harry knew would have got angrily, admittedly, but the Hermione he was _learning_ to know had eight years of experience with patients who got angry all the time. “I never heard Draco call him by a name, but I assume that was because he didn’t know which one to use. I think he has a name, right?”  
  
Draco sulked at Harry for spoiling his fun. Harry looked mildly back, and in the end, Draco surrendered with a bad grace and nodded, turning to study Hermione. “His name was Tilly.”  
  
“For a male house-elf?”  
  
“They don’t _care_ what they’re called. They don’t have the same standards for names that humans do.”  
  
“I know, but they should have some dignity.”  
  
“God, I’m glad that I never got to be friends with you and invited you over.”  
  
Leaving them to bicker, Harry turned back to Fleur, who was trying to catch his attention anyway. “Yes?” he murmured, bending over, since she seemed to want to whisper.  
  
With a sidelong glance at Hermione, Fleur murmured, “I would like another house-elf involved in this. It is not strictly necessary for the ritual, but the blending of elf and wizard is more complex than I had d anticipated. Do you have one? Perhaps the one devoted to the clean-up of Grimmauld Place, yes?”  
  
Harry relaxed and nodded. “Yes. Kreacher. Hermione’s used to him, too, so that’ll make it easier on her. He’s gone back to Grimmauld Place since he recovered from the attack. I don’t really have anything for him to do in Malfoy Manor.”  
  
“That will do,” said Fleur, and moved over to make some more changes to the parchment.  
  
Harry lingered to look into the house-elf’s eyes for a moment. They only looked back at him. Other than their color and the way that this elf was considerably calmer and more liable to stand still than Dobby or Winky or even Kreacher, Harry honestly couldn’t see that much difference from a typical one of the creatures.  
  
“He’s not a thing, Harry, you don’t have to stare at him.”  
  
That was Hermione. Harry moved obediently out of the way. But he didn’t see much difference between the way he’d looked at the house-elf and the way Hermione did, except that she had a tender expression on her face. Harry supposed she could feel that way about any elf, and it being Lucius Malfoy didn’t really change anything.  
  
“Tilly, can you hear me?” If Hermione still disliked the name after talking with Draco, there was no trace of it in her voice. She reached out and put a hand on the elf’s thin shoulder. “Are you still in there?”  
  
“I can hear you,” said the elf slowly. “But I am not understanding the question.”  
  
“There was something done to you,” Hermione explained in hushed tones. She looked over her shoulder at Draco, who was looking determinedly off into the distance, and then turned back to Tilly. “Accidentally, but it was done. The essence of a human was injected into you. Do you remember that?”  
  
“I not remember it,” said the house-elf, with a slow shake of his head. “Master Malfoy?” He leaned past Hermione to study Draco.  
  
Harry wondered what emotion was uppermost in Draco’s mind as he turned back to give Tilly a reluctant smile. “It’s all right, Tilly. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”  
  
“Then I am not wanting to answer questions,” said Tilly, and decided that he would look at the wall instead.  
  
“If only we could be sure exactly what had happened to him,” Hermione sighed as she went back to her bench.  
  
“We will know more when we can begin the ritual,” Fleur said absently as she bent over the design and changed the thickness of one of the lines with a little paintbrush.  
  
Hermione frowned, but at least she didn’t berate Draco, going over to join Fleur instead. Harry took her place on the couch and touched Draco with one hand when he seemed content to gaze at the wall.  
  
“Are you okay?”  
  
“She’s annoying.”  
  
 _But not intolerable,_ Harry thought, and Draco’s tone was no more than moderately weary. Harry put a comforting arm around his shoulders. “We’ll be done with this soon. And I told you. No matter what your father thinks, _I_ know it was an accident. And you’re welcome to come and stay with me.”  
  
Draco leaned on his shoulder. Startled that he wanted to do so in front of Hermione and Fleur, Harry still wrapped his other arm around Draco’s waist, this time.  
  
Neither Hermione nor Fleur nor Tilly appeared to notice, but for Harry at the moment, the soft warmth against his side and Draco’s breathing on his collarbone was his world.  
  
 _I am going to continue to change. And this is part of it._  
  



	39. The First Strand of the Web

Harry watched Fleur with a frown. She had asked him to come to Shell Cottage alone, saying she had something to tell him about the ritual that Draco didn’t need to know. Draco had accepted it, although he’d grumbled. He knew something about the delicacy of magical rituals, he’d told Harry.  
  
But Harry had been here almost an hour now, and Fleur still hadn’t shared what she had to share with him. She fluttered around getting cups of tea, and then redrawing part of the design on the parchment, and then talking about how excited Victoire was about Hogwarts, even though she wouldn’t be going for another two years.   
  
Now she was sitting on the couch in front of Harry, her hands locked together and her lips so compressed that it looked painful. Harry put down his own cup of tea as an experiment and asked, “Do you want me to go?”  
  
“No, no!” Fleur looked at him and then away. “This is delicate,” she murmured, with a strong return of her accent.  
  
Harry waited, and waited some more. Then he sighed. “Fleur—”  
  
“The pattern is coming together,” Fleur interrupted. “But it requires—knowledge of you and Draco.” She had her eyes locked on her hands. “You—have slept together, yes?”  
  
 _Oh_. Harry could feel his own cheeks heating up. No wonder Fleur had been embarrassed. “I—sort of? We had a duel, and then we—most people wouldn’t call it full sex, but we—you know.”  
  
“I do not want to know,” Fleur said with a delicate little moan. “But I must.”  
  
Harry decided he could only get through this if he wasn’t looking directly at Fleur. He studied the floor instead and said firmly, “Fine. Then. This is the way it was. I—we touched—each other with our hands and mouths. No more.”  
  
Fleur sagged against the back of her chair. “That makes sense of the pattern,” she said. “If anything else changes before then, you must let me know.” She stood briskly and walked over to the parchment covered with lines that lay on the table.  
  
“Why would _that_ make a difference?” Harry asked blankly.  
  
Fleur glanced over her shoulder. Already the pink was leaving her cheeks. Harry supposed it was different when she could think about it as part of the magical theory she was investigating instead of something involving a friend. “Because it tells me something about the requirements of the ritual,” she said crisply. “You know there are rituals that involve different degrees of sex, yes? This ritual would be different if you were enemies with Draco, if you had already slept with him, if you had been friends before this began.” She shook her head, and her hair slid out of its complicated knot on the back of her neck. With a sigh, Fleur jabbed her wand into it and worked a spell that put it back into place more tightly. “That is a reason many people do not follow this field of study. It is too complicated.”  
  
Harry nodded, and watched for a minute while Fleur worked to alter some lines near the middle and draw a curve near the top of the picture. Then he cleared his throat. “Should we be thinking about how we’ll get my enemies here?”  
  
“When we begin,” Fleur said calmly, “they will be drawn by the properties of the ritual. They will not be able to help themselves.”  
  
Harry shivered. “But you said they would also be free to act during a certain part of the ritual.”  
  
“Yes. The ritual could not draw them if it did not work with their free will.”  
  
“So we have to be careful?”  
  
Fleur cast him a glance, but Harry didn’t think she really saw him. Her eyes were still blurred with calculations and the small, thin lines she was carefully drawing across the parchment. “Yes. We will need to set up complex traps that still fit with the needs of the ritual if we are to prevent them from acting against us.”  
  
Harry tucked his hands hard into the corners of his armpits and bowed his head. “This doesn’t sound simple,” he muttered.  
  
“No, it is not,” said Fleur, and smiled at him a little. “Why do you think so few people study the art of the magical theory?”  
  
*  
  
“What was it Delacour wanted to talk to you about?”  
  
Harry started. Draco had once again appeared in the library without any warning, and now that Harry’s mind was successfully distracted from Arithmancy equations and he was thinking again of what Fleur had told him, he could feel his cheeks growing red.  
  
Draco, who’d flopped down in a plush chair on the other side of the table, blinked a little and sat up. “Isn’t _that_ an interesting reaction,” he muttered. “Much more interesting than I anticipated.”  
  
“You realize I couldn’t discuss it with you if it was something that changed the nature of the ritual?”  
  
“But that means it’s not.” Draco leaned forwards with a decisive nod. “Which makes it something you can talk about with me.”  
  
Harry sighed. “Well, it was something that _could_ have changed the nature of the ritual.” He touched his hot face and grimaced once. He supposed he couldn’t be blamed for it giving him away. “Fleur could never have said it in front of you, anyway. She would have been too embarrassed.”  
  
“It’s about whether we had sex, isn’t it?”  
  
“Yes.” Harry was glad he could get that word out, too. He wasn’t _that_ embarrassed when he thought of having sex with Draco, but he was embarrassed at the thought that Fleur knew.  
  
“And what did you tell her?”  
  
Harry waved his hand wildly, feeling the way he had when he was trying to find the words to express it to Fleur. “That we’d touched each other, but not in the full way that she thought we had.”  
  
“Well.” Draco was quiet for a few minutes, and Harry kept expecting him to either leave the library or start talking about how he should have been there to hold the discussion with Fleur anyway. But instead, he turned to Harry and said with a completely straight face, “Do you want to change that?”  
  
Harry coughed even though he had no food or air in his mouth. “Correct _what_?”  
  
“The fact that we haven’t done it ‘in the full way.’” Draco spoke the words as fastidiously as though he was trying to pick up mouse shit with his bare hands.  
  
“I—don’t think we should. That means we would change the ritual again. Or we might. And then Fleur would have to repaint it or redraw it again.”  
  
“That isn’t the same as a refusal because I’m ugly or you’re nervous or you want to wait.” Draco sounded delighted. He leaned forwards, and even though he hadn’t actually got up from his chair, Harry had the impression that he was stalking Harry like a great cat ready to pounce. “So. What’s it going to be?”  
  
“Why does it have to _be_ anything?” Harry closed his eyes and kept them closed. “Why don’t we wait until after the ritual?”  
  
“Because I want to do it now.”  
  
Harry snorted and opened his eyes. “But you said you would accept my refusal if I wanted to wait. Why is this different?”  
  
Draco shrugged. His eyes were luminous; Harry didn’t think he ever remembered seeing him look so delighted before. “Because I thought you would refuse for a lot of reasons—you didn’t know me well, you thought I would turn on you, you were uncertain about how much you could put up with me after what I confessed to. Or your own emotions frightened you.”  
  
“My own emotions do _not_ frighten me—”  
  
“Then we can make love, right?”  
  
“The ritual—”  
  
“It’s not the important kind of excuse.” Draco paused and leaned back a little in his chair as if he thought that Harry would need some space. “The kind of excuse that you would make if it was really _you_ doing it. You’re just afraid of upsetting the Weasleys. I think you should make the decision because it’s you who want to. You know?”  
  
“Not really,” Harry said dryly. “And I’m not afraid of upsetting my friends. Ron and Hermione took the fact that I was with you well, and they were the ones who knew me best.”  
  
“Then why do you want to wait?”  
  
“The _ritual_.”  
  
“And I want to know if you’re going to come up with another excuse when the ritual’s done with.” Draco moved his head, and Harry thought he could see the light glittering off his cheekbones for a moment, they were _that_ sharp. “Well? Will you? You’ll decide that I’m too angular and need feeding up, or something.”  
  
It was close enough to his thoughts to make Harry chuckle in surprise, and Draco looked at him narrowly. Harry held up his hands. “I promise I won’t do that, Draco. You—I do want to be with you. I know it’s not just a friendship that will proceed along the same lines as my friendships with the Weasleys. I know what’s coming.”  
  
“And you sound like you dread it.” Draco put his hands on the table as if he was going to push away from it and back towards the library door.  
  
Harry sighed and put his head in his hands. “Not dread it,” he muttered around the edges of his fingers. “Just that I don’t understand it as well as I need to. And I’m afraid of doing something unforgivable.”  
  
“You’re nervous because you’re a virgin?”  
  
“Not even that.” Harry dropped his hands and faced Draco, the way Harry thought he deserved to be faced. “I’m not really a virgin. Even if you know more about that than I do,” he added. The potion that had let Draco live through _Harry’s_ experiences had never really stopped troubling him.   
  
Draco watched him carefully, with shuttered eyes.  
  
“I want things to go right, and I don’t know if they will,” Harry finally managed to say. “I worry about driving you away because I’m too clumsy, or horrible, or don’t do things right. That’s all.”  
  
“As if you _could_ ,” Draco said, and shook his head when Harry looked at him. “My father was right to be disappointed in me, in one way. I’m never going to be able to let go of you. I’ll live out the obsession, and the woman he wanted me to marry will never materialize. And that’s going to be true no matter what he says when he comes back to himself,” he added, and reached out to clasp Harry’s hand.  
  
“I—well, thank you,” said Harry. He supposed that Draco’s obsession _should_ bother him. It had let him do some awful things with Old Harry in the past.  
  
But it didn’t. Harry didn’t think he would ever be able to be much upset about it again. Draco had also been there to support him in his new life, even if it was partially for the wrong reasons.   
  
“Good,” said Draco, and beamed at him for a second, the way he had when Harry had kissed him in Shell Cottage. Then he leaned forwards with an excessive pout. “Can we go make love _now_?”  
  
Harry hushed him with a kiss, and then stood up with him. He saw Royal through the window, but the owl only gave him a look of pure disdain and sped off. Harry assumed that seeing Draco had interrupted whatever plans Royal had for a visit.  
  
“Yes,” Harry said, eyes locked on Draco’s. He would explain about the change in the ritual to Fleur the next time he saw her. He couldn’t bring himself to put off Draco’s request any longer. “Let’s go.”  
  
*  
  
“You have to push it deeper.”  
  
“But I’ll hurt you.” Harry looked between his fingers and Draco’s hole in doubt. He was already skeptical that he was actually going to fit into an opening that Draco had to hold his legs that high to show off.  
  
“You’ll hurt me a lot more if you don’t push your fingers deeper,” Draco snapped. “And cover them with more of that lube. Come _on,_ Harry.” He rolled his eyes and let his head flop back on the pillow. But his hands remained steady on his legs, holding them up and angled, even as his hips began to tremble.  
  
Harry eased his finger inside. He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until Draco said dryly, “That role of tense discomfort is usually reserved for the one bottoming, you know.”  
  
Harry breathed out, then, and made sure to exhale and inhale smoothly as he bent down to slide his fingers into Draco.  
  
“Looking at it doesn’t make it bigger.”  
  
That, though, Harry felt good about ignoring. Draco _had_ tensed up when Harry’s finger got inside him, even if he was going to swear that he didn’t. And he was staring at the ceiling with enough concentration that Harry could tell how intently he was trying to find something else to think about. Harry added a second finger only slowly, and moved them back and forth only when Draco commanded him to.  
  
But it seemed he had finally managed to do something right when Draco’s demands abruptly broke off, and the expression on his face when Harry looked was a red, open-mouth stare of bliss. Harry blinked. Then he said, “I found your prostate already?”  
  
“It’s not like it’s buried treasure.” But Draco’s voice was softer than it had been, and all Harry had to do to make him shut up was move his fingers a little more, and then jab harder with the one on the left. Draco’s neck made a smooth curve as he suddenly stared more at the headboard than the ceiling. “Yes. _Yes_.”  
  
“Well, good, that answers my question,” said Harry cheerfully, and slicked himself up, trying to hide his own trembling hands. He didn’t think Draco could actually see them from this angle, though.  
  
“Get on with it.”  
  
Draco was right back to being bossy and annoying, then. Harry narrowed his eyes with determination as he slid into place. He would just have to hit Draco’s prostate again, and again, and again, until Draco had something to think about besides his complaints.  
  
Then Harry got lucky and hit the prostate on the first thrust, and the warmth around him was so incredible that he couldn’t even think on his _own_ about Draco’s complaints. God, it was good. Harry thrust and thrust and thrust, and wondered why he’d waited this long.  
  
Well, he knew. He _hadn’t_. And this was the first thing that Harry thought he could understand and sympathize with Old Harry about, that he would have wanted to experience this with a man and not just date Ginny.  
  
 _It’s all the other things he did in pursuit of that goal that are horrible,_ Harry thought, and reflexively opened his eyes when Draco reached up and touched his cheek. Draco was staring up at him almost with awe, his lips parted a little.   
  
“You’re—you look as if you’re drunk,” Draco said.  
  
“Drunk on you, maybe,” Harry said, and had to thrust harder again after that, because Draco was somehow gloating just _lying_ there and without even moving his muscles.  
  
Draco had his own intoxicated expression now, and seemed less prone to tease Harry. His mouth was falling open, his legs spasming, his muscles trembling. Harry thrust again and thought, _I’m causing all that. Me. Because I wanted to, and because he wanted me to._  
  
The last nervousness flew away. Because Harry might not know, consciously, what this was like, but Draco did, and he even knew how Harry made love to other people, and he was still willing to let Harry inside him.  
  
After that, it was almost pure magic, with Harry watching the flushes that rose and died in Draco’s cheeks, and Draco’s hands were opening and closing with such regularity that it looked like a pattern, and Harry’s pleasure ebbed and flowed back and forth in response to Draco’s. Draco’s cock was a brilliant purple and standing straight up by the time Harry reached for it.  
  
Draco bucked and shouted when he touched it, but didn’t come yet. He opened his eyes, though, and said, “You can’t do that.”  
  
“Ooh, look, I just did it,” Harry said, and brushed the head with the tip of his finger. That provoked an angry snarl at him. “Ooh, look, I did it again.”  
  
“Fucker—”  
  
“Yes, I think we’ve established that,” Harry said, and brought his hips sharply enough forwards that he bruised himself and surprised a grunt out of Draco.  
  
Draco gave up on speaking, it seemed, and just humped himself against Harry harder and harder, trying to get the pleasure that Harry was spreading around for himself. Harry laughed as hard as he could in the meantime, but that didn’t stop Draco.  
  
And it didn’t stop their bodies, either.  
  
Harry felt as if he was soaring for a moment before he crashed down again and realized he was _coming_ , instead. And so was Draco. It was a long, drawn-out moment of wetness and heat and _goodness_ , and then Harry had to angle himself carefully so he wouldn’t get covered with that wetness by crashing on Draco’s stomach.  
  
Draco turned and wrapped himself around Harry so fiercely that Harry choked.  
  
“Are you sorry that we did this and Weasley will have to redraw the ritual again?” Draco demanded.  
  
Harry blinked and realized something. “I wasn’t thinking about Fleur or the ritual at all.”  
  
Draco’s eyes closed, and he held on even tighter.  
  
“Good,” he said fiercely. “Good.”  
  



	40. Permanence

“I’m sorry,” Harry had to say, because the harassed look on Fleur’s face made him wince even though he knew he’d done the right thing by telling her.  
  
“It will only be a matter of redrawing a few lines,” said Fleur, although with a long sigh that suggested she was anger than she’d let him see. “I am more worried about the complexity of _this_.” She touched a thick blue line in the center of the parchment.  
  
“What is it?” No matter how long Harry looked at the ritual drawing, he couldn’t interpret it. Of course, since he didn’t have the training Fleur did, he shouldn’t expect to.  
  
“The preparations we will need to make to call in your enemies.” Fleur sat down in front of the table and mixed some blue paint in an eggshell off to the right. Harry blinked and started to open his mouth when he saw her dipping the ends of her hair in the paint, but Fleur calmed him with one look. “I know what I am doing, Harry. What I must be doing.”  
  
Harry just watched as she trailed the ends of her hair over the parchment, creating small snagged trails that looped back and forth and wandered dizzily around each other. That was, when they appeared at all. Harry thought the pressure of her hair was really too light to affect the parchment.  
  
Fleur only shook her head when she sat back and saw it, then applied some more paint to her hair. “We need more color,” she muttered. “Although the gaps are interesting in their own right.” She used a pair of small silver scissors next to the eggshell to trim a few pieces of parchment in random shapes—at least, Harry thought they were random—and then used Sticking Charms to paper over some of the gaps. Then she began painting with her hair again.  
  
Harry waited until she sat up before clearing his throat. He was starting to understand where the usual stereotype of magical theorists being mental came from. “What do you mean about the need to call in my enemies?”  
  
“The pattern that will channel their free will and give them what they think is their own idea for coming to confront you,” Fleur explained. She took up a cloth, wet it with an _Aguamenti_ , and then began to scrub briskly at the paint in her hair. “We need to leave open a way for them to act and for you to respond, both at the same time.”  
  
“So that’s why it’s so dangerous,” Harry said, shivering a little as he thought about that.   
  
Fleur nodded. “The ritual dictates that you have a chance of winning. It will pull together your enemies so that you also have a chance of finishing this. But in the meantime, that same opening leaves _them_ a chance for victory.”  
  
 _She told me that before, but not so bluntly,_ Harry thought, and sat down and looked again at the parchment. He wished the lines meant something to him. Maybe he could understand how big the chance of dying was.  
  
 _What’s wrong with me, though? I never used to worry about dying._  
  
But Harry had to shake his head. He thought that had changed even before he went to sleep—his last memory that him and Old Harry had in common. He’d just died in the Forbidden Forest. He didn’t want to die again so soon. And Old Harry had risked his life, but he’d also done lots of things that meant no one would even suspect him. Harry thought he had probably only put his life in danger when he absolutely had to.  
  
“I am sorry.” Fleur’s voice was gentle, and her hair was back to shining silver, if wet silver, as she leaned back and regarded Harry with compassion in her eyes. “This is the best way to give you a life. It is not without risk. It is not without sacrifice.”   
  
Abruptly she leaned down and picked up something from under the table. It was a small silver vial, corked with a pale golden spell. Harry watched without comprehension as she pushed it towards him.  
  
“What is it?” he asked, picking it up and tilting it back and forth. Despite the spell that corked the neck of the vial, there was nothing inside that Harry could see.   
  
“This is your part of the sacrifice.” Fleur folded her hands on the table. It struck Harry then that she wasn’t meeting his eyes. “I told Mr. Malfoy what he would need to give up to free his father. The wealth, or at least the possibility of wealth, if his father chooses to disown him once he is free, yes?” Harry nodded. Fleur finally looked at him again. “This is what you must give up.”  
  
“You still haven’t told me what that _is_. Just tell me, Fleur.”  
  
“Yes,” Fleur murmured, although Harry thought she wasn’t talking to him, mostly. “There is a chance—small, because it is not what the ritual is designed for, but there—that you could regain your memories through this.”  
  
Harry jerked. It was as though someone had pushed him over a cliff. “But my _brain_ is damaged. Hermione told me that. Even the best Healers couldn’t give me my memories back.”  
  
“The Healers, they are not studying pure magical theory of the kind I am talking about.” Fleur lifted her shoulders, held them there for a long moment, and then let them fall again. “They cannot cure brain damage. Very well, no, they cannot. But the ritual is about opening chances and paths of possibility.”  
  
“So I could get them back if things went a certain way?” Harry traced the line of the vial. “And this chance is the one I have to give up to make sure the ritual goes correctly? What, do you think I’m so desperate to get my memories back that I would twist everything?” Harry set down the vial harder than he meant to, but then, his hand was shaking. “Why even _tell_ me about the chance? Why not just let me go ahead with the ritual?”  
  
“Because that is not something I can do with the ritual itself.” Fleur spread her hands. “We need to give your enemies a chance to come to you and strike back. I need to give you the chance to know about your memories and try to get them back if you want them.”  
  
“Then this…?” Harry tapped the vial against the table, partially to relieve his mood and partially for the satisfaction of seeing how Fleur winced when he did it.  
  
“Will fill with a blue light when you commit to the decision to give up on retrieving your memories.”  
  
Harry closed his eyes. “How can I know that?”  
  
“When the vial fills with blue light,” said Fleur unhelpfully. When Harry did open his eyes a little to glare at her, she added, as if apologetically, “I know it will take time, but that is what Mr. Malfoy had to do with his commitment to rescuing his father, yes? He had to make up his mind and work until it was real and stronger than his fear.”  
  
Harry sighed one more time and regarded the vial. He wanted to say that he _already_ didn’t want the memories back, that he and Old Harry were different people and what he could remember was enough, but that must not be true. Or the blue light would already be there.  
  
Draco had finally had to think through what he wanted and what he needed in depth, what his father coming back would take from him as well as give. Harry needed to think through the chance of having the last ten years back.  
  
What would he _gain,_ as well as lose?  
  
Well, he would know right away what other secrets might be hiding around the house he’d shared with Ginny, or Grimmauld Place, or the Shadow Vault, instead of possibly stumbling on them years later. He would know more about his enemies, and the ways to defeat them, which might help when they showed up during the ritual. He would know things for certain that he had to speculate about now, like why Old Harry had fallen in love with Rob and why he’d been so afraid that other people might not see him as a hero.  
  
Harry thought he knew those stories. But that was nothing like living them from the inside, being able to remember.  
  
He would know Ron and Hermione and their kids again. And Bill and Fleur and _their_ kids. He would know what his friendship with George had been like, and his good relationship with Teddy. He could be the godfather Teddy needed.  
  
The friend his friends needed. Maybe even the man Ginny needed.  
  
For a minute, longing so powerful filled Harry that his hand shook, and the vial made a musical chiming noise as it knocked against the table. It wasn’t so simple after all, to put that temptation out of his head and say that he only wanted to be Just Harry, in the present.  
  
Harry shivered and opened his eyes and stared down at the vial. He would give a lot to know those stories.  
  
But would he give up the person he had turned into?  
  
Because that would be the price, Harry was fairly sure. He wouldn’t be either Old Harry or himself if the memories came back. He would be some blend of the two, and he would only have a few months of the “new” memories to put against ten years of old allegiances and loyalties and secrets.  
  
And what would happen to all the moving forward he’d done? Would he feel the same way about Draco? About his friends, glad that the secrets were out in the open? Would he start feeling guilty about his decision to give up Auror work again, instead of glad that he’d done it? Would he decide he had to confess and go to Azkaban, since he would remember being close to Kingsley?  
  
 _It’s not worth giving up the person I am. The person I could become. I told everyone Old Harry was dead._  
  
 _And I’m not a necromancer. I don’t even want to use the Resurrection Stone, no matter how much the Elder Wand says I’m the Master of Death. I want the present._  
  
 _I choose it_.  
  
Fleur choked. Harry opened his eyes as a little warmth touched his fingers and saw the vial shining with delicate blue light, paler than he had assumed it would be.  
  
“I thought that would take you much longer,” Fleur said with a little frown as she peered at Harry. “It took Mr. Malfoy much longer to accept his true feelings and reveal them.”  
  
“I know,” Harry said, sitting back a little as he admired the blue light. “But I think Draco was a lot more conflicted about it. He’d had years and years to be afraid that he didn’t _really_ love his father or want to release him. I’ve only had a few months to think about it.”  
  
“Perhaps that is true.” Fleur still watched his face cautiously as she took the vial, but Harry shook his head at her and stood up.  
  
“I have someone waiting at home for me, who’s already suspicious because I had to come alone two days in a row. Is there anything else you can think of that I need to know about the ritual?”  
  
“No.” Fleur touched her hair as if she thought that she might still have paint in it, and then put the vial down beside the parchment. Maybe the light in it had to shine over the painted lines; Harry could readily admit he had no idea. “I will let you know what objects you need to gather for the ritual.”  
  
Harry nodded. Fleur had already told them that certain objects would form a ritual circle and ritual “corridors”—the places that certain actions had to take place. “All right. Thanks, Fleur.”  
  
Once he was outside the front door of Shell Cottage, Harry found himself closing his eyes and taking a breath that felt as deep as the sea.   
  
He knew what he valued, now.  
  
*  
  
“Some of these objects make no _sense_ ,” Draco objected, studying the parchment in front of him and shaking his head as if that would make some of Fleur’s words change shape into ones he had expected. “Bells? Excuse me, _copper_ bells. And chains. And whistles? What does she think we’re doing, training Crups?”  
  
Harry shrugged and tossed another mouse for Royal. Because he had condescended to deliver Fleur’s letters to them, he seemed to think that he needed about three times the usual amount of food from Harry. “I don’t know. She just told me that they’re part of the ritual.”  
  
“Right,” Draco drawled. “I studied a little bit of magical theory when I was trying to learn how to free my father, and none of the books ever mentioned things like this.”  
  
Harry waited for a second until he had watched Royal settle heavily on the mouse and stab it with his beak. Then he turned around and asked quietly, “Second thoughts?”  
  
Draco swallowed and closed his eyes. “I suppose I can’t, can I?” he whispered. “Or my father stays exactly where he is forever.”  
  
“I don’t know about forever. Fleur might be able to come up with something else. But the way she had me give up my chance of getting my memories back, I think she wants us to have an absolute commitment to this.”  
  
“And my second thoughts might destroy it. Right.” Draco opened his eyes. “I would be angry, too, if I put all that work in and then someone ruined it.”  
  
“Right.” Harry waited, but Draco looked out over the grass of his gardens and the soft clouds rolling in and said nothing. “So. Second thoughts?”  
  
Draco closed his hand on the rim of the goblet that stood next to him. He and Harry had been drinking Firewhisky as they read Fleur’s letters and watched Royal flying and a few of the house-elves—the ones that didn’t have essence of Lucius in them—tending the flowers. Draco seemed to roll the words around in his mouth as he answered.  
  
“No. I want to do this.”  
  
“Then we need to do what Fleur directs.” Harry picked up the list and scanned it again. Then he paused when he saw ink coming through the other side of the parchment, and realized the list continued there. He flipped it over.  
  
“Oh, wonderful,” he said. “We have to have pieces of the appropriate wood for our wands, shaped to look like them, but without a core. Fleur said that we could borrow appropriate unfinished wands from Ollivander.”  
  
“Who probably doesn’t work with elder wood,” Draco said in a low voice. “Who might not be pleased to do a favor for me, considering what my family did to him during the war.”  
  
Harry shrugged and put the list down on the stone wall around several flowering rosebushes next to him. “We can go to Gregorovitch, or whoever took over his business, if we need to. I’ve read that sometimes they use elder wood more often in Austria or France. Trying to capture that mystique of the Elder Wand.”  
  
“If you have to let a wandmaker look closely at it,” Draco said quietly, “what’s going to happen if they recognize it as _the_ Elder Wand?”  
  
That wasn’t something Harry had thought about. He opened his mouth to say he would use a charm to disguise the wand, and then shut his mouth, shaking his head. They couldn’t do that, or the replica wouldn’t be exact, and Fleur’s list was insistent that they needed copies as close as could be for the ritual.  
  
“I’ll go to Ollivander after all, then,” he said. “He might not be willing to work for you, but for me…he’ll keep quiet, I think. He probably keeps a lot more secrets than we know.”  
  
Draco nodded and reached out. Harry took his hand, and for a second they sat in silence, hands clasped between them, the only sound the tearing of Royal’s beak through the corpse of the mouse.  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
It took Harry a minute to realize Draco had spoken; the peace of the evening was that resistant to breaking. He blinked and turned to look at him. “You’re welcome,” he said. “But you did a lot for me, too. Gave me a place to stay, gave me an identity separate from the one as Old Harry…”  
  
Draco smiled a little. “It’s nice to know that my obsession with him had some good result after all.”  
  
Harry pulled Draco against him, and they sat, watching as Royal took flight once again and the dusk settled over the gardens.  
  
 _I can do this,_ Harry thought, even as he looked down at the massive list of ritual preparations and knew how much time it was going to take, and, probably, how much money it was going to cost. _For a chance to sit like this and not have clouds from the past hanging over our heads…_  
  
 _And even though it’s beautiful here at Malfoy Manor, we can have the same mood and the same people at Grimmauld Place, or some house I haven’t even bought yet._  
  
Draco had his eyes closed when Harry looked at him, head still tilted to rest fully against Harry’s shoulder, lips parted in a little dreaming smile.   
  
_Yes. For him, it’s all worth it._


	41. The Corridor of Copper Bells

“This doesn’t seem like it’ll make much sense,” Ron muttered under his breath as he bent down and fastened another vine around the copper bells Fleur had wanted them to gather.  
  
Harry only shook his head. He would have said something, but they’d been working most of the morning, and he was too out of breath to talk.  
  
The meadow Fleur had chosen as the site for the ritual was about a mile from Shell Cottage, near another wizarding house, but the owners had said they didn’t mind the use of their property. They were a man and woman with three young kids. Harry thought they would keep well out of the way of the ritual.  
  
Right now, what he and Ron had to do was string vines—not even chains—through the tops of hundreds of little copper bells, and set them up so they formed small aisles down and through the meadow.  
  
“Why copper?” Ron asked, in the tone of someone asking to distract himself from foolish questions. He stood to stretch his aching back.  
  
Harry shrugged, still silent. He pulled on another vine, and cursed silently as some of the outer plant skin peeled back from the top of the bell. Fleur had been insistent that all the vines had to be whole, not peeled, and he and Ron had _already_ gone through hours of work charming big loops onto the tops of the bells that could take a vine through them.  
  
“I don’t know,” Harry finally said, when he could catch his breath because Ron had waited for him to cast a charm that would tuck the strip of cut vine back along its length. “Does it matter?”  
  
“Yes,” said Ron. “Or at least to Hermione. She’s been pestering me to ask Fleur why copper so that she can try and figure out more of the base of Fleur’s theory.”  
  
“Then—ask Fleur.” Harry was once again doing the tricky work of threading a vine through the tops of the bells, and there was no attention he could spare for a question that Hermione was capable of finding out on her own.  
  
It took until dusk to encircle those designated parts of the meadow with the lashed vines, and then cast the charms that would strengthen the vines and ensure they didn’t break under the strain. Harry had asked, once Fleur had repeated the instruction four times, what would happen if the vines broke in the middle of the ritual.  
  
“One of us would cease to exist.”  
  
Harry shuddered and went to check on the vines on the far side of the clearing, the ones he and Ron had strung this morning. An answer like that killed a lot of his impatience.  
  
“Harry.”  
  
Harry turned around, in time to see Ron coming over to hug him. Harry leaned against him and shut his eyes. He wished he had more memories of times when they’d stood like this, leaning on each other, instead of mainly ones from the Horcrux hunt and Hogwarts.  
  
“Fleur told me that you gave up the right to find your old memories during the ritual,” Ron finally murmured, when the embrace had relaxed Harry’s muscles a bit. “I didn’t know you could do that.”  
  
“It wasn’t a right,” Harry said, and pulled back and shook his head. “It was a possibility. And this ritual wasn’t made for me. It’s about the chance to pull Lucius Malfoy out of a house-elf. Draco would be devastated if I used it for myself.”  
  
Ron grimaced a little at the mention of Draco’s name, but he was far more interested, Harry thought, in something else. “Is that really the only reason you were able to give it up? Fleur said it was easy for you. She expected you to have conflicted feelings about it, and—” Ron’s hand made a vague swooping motion.  
  
“The way I look at it,” Harry said slowly, “Old Harry died when I lost my memories. And you remember what Dumbledore said about magic that could bring back the dead?”  
  
“Or what the Tale of the Three Brothers said.” Ron shivered and wrapped his arms around himself, then nodded. “You think you’d be killing the part of you that’s lived since then, right?”  
  
“Yes,” said Harry. “And I can’t bring myself to kill the man who loves Draco to bring back the man who loved Ginny. Or might have loved her. Or pretended to love her.” He shook his head. “Even talking about him like this is confusing, and not because he was part of me.”  
  
Ron again nodded. He stood looking off into the distance, and Harry waited patiently. Fleur and Bill hadn’t known how long it would take them to string the bells, so they would have a late dinner waiting at Shell Cottage that could be heated up whenever Harry and Ron got back.  
  
Ron finally turned around and said, “What is it like, loving Malfoy?”  
  
Harry smiled before he could help himself. “I assume you don’t want all the details any more than I want all the details from you and Hermione.”  
  
Ron’s face assumed the approximate color of a brushfire. “Merlin, mate,” he said, and turned away to start walking in the direction of Shell Cottage. “You know that’s not what I meant.”  
  
“No.” Harry paced beside his best friend and thought about it. There had to be words that would tell Ron a good part of the truth while not exposing anything too intimate.  
  
And when he thought about it, there were.  
  
“It’s like walking down a bridge,” he said, and smiled a little when Ron gave him a confused glance. “The only way that there _can_ be a bridge between two parts of me, the old one and the new one. Draco’s the only one who knew so much about what the old version of me was doing at the time, _and_ knows the new me this well, too.”  
  
“So you don’t love him for himself? Only the way he knows you?”  
  
Harry groaned and wished there was some way he could say everything he needed to at once, and be perfectly understood. Only there was no way. Draco would misunderstand him sometimes, he’d always had _some_ arguments with Ron and Hermione, Old Harry had lied to a lot of people, and even with Royal, there were snippy attempts to bite his fingers off when he showed up without a mouse.  
  
But there were no perfect ways to make people think of him and love him. And if Harry thought long enough about it, then he could see where Old Harry’s temptations had come from.  
  
“I love him for himself. And the way he knows me.”  
  
Ron thought about that, visibly wincing a little at some of the thoughts that must have been occurring to him. Harry let him work through them as needed, now and then glancing back at the copper bells strung in the meadow.  
  
Ron finally swallowed and whispered, “It must have been—incredibly hard, for you to realize who Hermione was and that all your memories were gone.”  
  
They’d had this conversation a few times since he woke, but not since they’d come to realize how much Old Harry had been hiding, and the way his relationships had been based on lies. Harry only nodded, watching Ron.  
  
“And I suppose—Malfoy was willing to tell you what had happened, and confirm that in some ways, Old Harry was doing Dark Arts.” Ron looked at Harry out of the corner of his eye. “While we didn’t want to acknowledge it.”  
  
Harry reached out and squeezed Ron’s shoulder hard enough to make his friend look at him nervously. “You _couldn’t_ acknowledge it,” he said firmly. “You didn’t know about it. And when it finally started to come out, I don’t blame you for wanting to deny it. It was like—like you had a different best friend, one I didn’t know, and suddenly he disappeared and the person responsible for his disappearance was standing here and telling you what an awful bloke he was. I wouldn’t want to listen to me either.”  
  
Ron’s face slowly relaxed, and he said, “That’s why you’re my best mate. Because things happen that ought to destroy us, and we climb past them and keep on going.”  
  
Harry nodded. “Like having arguments during the Horcrux hunt. It didn’t stop us from succeeding.”  
  
“No.”   
  
Ron’s smile was a little sad, and Harry thought he knew why. Ron would be thinking of things more recent than memories ten years old, memories that Harry could no longer share except as stories, and probably wondering if he should even mention them.  
  
Then Ron said, in a light tone that told Harry how desperately he wanted to change the subject, “And dating Malfoy. This is a crisis that we’ll get through, too.”  
  
“Draco’s not going to disappear,” said Harry carefully. Sometimes he made mistakes where he thought he was reading Ron right, and then he had to remember that ten years had passed, again. “If that’s what you’re thinking—well, get rid of it, Ron. He’s close enough to me that even if we stop dating, we’re still going to be intertwined in _some_ way.”  
  
 _Draco was obsessed enough with me to not want to get married when his father told him he had to, even when he had no idea that I might like blokes and might ever like him back._ But saying that, without the context Harry had seen it in, would only give Ron the wrong idea, so he didn’t.  
  
“I never thought that,” Ron protested. “I mean that Hermione and I will grumble and then get used to it.”  
  
Harry had to smile. “Hermione is already used to it.”  
  
“Knowing Hermione, she has a contingency plan in place if you break up, a contingency plan if you stay together, a contingency plan about what to do if Malfoy hurts you…”  
  
Harry laughed, as he knew he was supposed to, and the conversation limped through the rough patch long before they got back to Shell Cottage and were eating the perfectly delicious soup Bill had made and left under a Warming Charm.  
  
 _Get through rough patches,_ Harry thought, watching as Ron sipped with his mouth closed and didn’t talk when it was full, proving a few things had changed since Hogwarts. _Because that’s what we do._  
  
*  
  
“Where are we going?” The grey-eyed house-elf stood in front of Draco as he reached out and wrapped a band of forest-green cloth around his arm. The elf ignored that, though. His attention was all for Harry.  
  
 _He does have something in him that makes him different from the majority of house-elves._ Dobby would have asked about the band, or refused to wear it, or wanted two hundred of the same kind. Other house-elves would probably have stayed silent, or at least asked about the band. This one…  
  
Harry wondered, for the first time, as he saw wariness come into the elf’s eyes, if they would have to deal with rebellion from one of the people the ritual was meant to help.  
  
“We are bringing you to people who want to heal you,” said Draco. He bent down in front of the elf. “You have visions that disturb you, I know. Memories that you can’t account for. You told me that once.”  
  
Two pairs of grey eyes locked on each other like that, so similar, made a sight that Harry abruptly realized he couldn’t watch. He turned his head and looked at a tapestry on the far wall, which showed a hunt under a full moon. He breathed slowly.  
  
“I remember the visions,” the elf said slowly. “But I was not having them in a long time.”  
  
“I remember them even better,” Draco said. “And I know where they might have come from. If you want to go back to what you were, then you’ll come with us. We’re going to visit a magical theorist who’s agreed to help.”  
  
“Magical theorists are…” The elf’s hands were trembling by the time Harry couldn’t stand it anymore and turned around to look.  
  
“Magical theorists are dangerous.” Draco leaned back against the wall. “I remember telling you that, a long time ago. I was afraid they could take one look at you and figure out what you were. But that’s obviously not true, and even if they’d been able to do that…” He gave a quick, shallow breath that made Harry come up beside him before he thought about it and press his fingertips to Draco’s shoulder.  
  
“I should have let them help you,” Draco whispered, his eyes lingering on the elf’s face.  
  
The elf stared back and forth between them. Harry thought he looked slightly longer at Harry, but it really was hard to tell. Then he swallowed and said, “Master Harry Potter was being here at times.”  
  
“Yes,” said Draco. “And he’s going to help in the ritual to free you. I want you to listen to him the way you would me.”  
  
“Free me from what?” Maybe Draco didn’t notice, but Harry could hear the shrill edge to the elf’s tone, the way of speaking he was getting that Dobby had had sometimes right before he burst out sobbing.  
  
When Draco started to talk, Harry caught his gaze and shook his head. Draco hesitated, then stepped back. Harry was the one who knelt in front of the house-elf and caught that tearful gaze.  
  
“We know that you were once two different people,” he said. “One was an elf, and one was a human. Lucius Malfoy.”  
  
The elf’s hand shook. He was trying to form a fist above his heart, Harry thought, but he didn’t know why. He waited until the elf gave a little nod, as if to say he was willing to listen to this, although Harry didn’t have a great deal of faith that he would understand all of it.  
  
Then again, no one except maybe Fleur did. Hermione had spent a lot of time talking to the little house-elf, but she had admitted that she didn’t know what to make of his mingled personality and memories.  
  
“We want you to be free,” said Harry. “So part of you can be a house-elf and part can be a human, and there’s no confusion. When the parts of you are separate again, then you won’t have those strange memories and dreams.”  
  
The elf hesitated.  
  
“I once had a house-elf who was a friend,” Harry said, inspired. “His name was Dobby. He might have worked with you before you were part human. I promise that whatever you say to me, I’ll listen to you.” He carefully kept his back turned to Draco, because he knew he couldn’t make the same promise for him. The best you could say when it came to Draco and house-elves was that he was trying.  
  
“I am who I am,” the elf whispered. “What if I want—what if I am _wanting_ to keep those memories and dreams?”  
  
Harry blinked. He hadn’t expected that. But he knew the answer, because he had discussed this specific situation with Fleur along with listening to a lot of the theory behind the ritual.  
  
“The ritual gives you the chance to choose,” he said. “I lost my memories, too, you know? I couldn’t decide who I wanted to be until I was confronted with those old memories and I could really _understand_ them. You’ll see the memories, and you can choose if you want to be a separate human and house-elf, or stay the way you are.”  
  
Draco hissed behind him, but Harry didn’t turn around. That was the way things were. In the end, the ritual was all about free will, and the house-elf had free will as much as any of them. It probably wouldn’t have worked with a normal house-elf, Fleur had admitted, because of their magic and desire to serve, but this was already an unusual case.  
  
The elf looked at Harry with huge eyes and trembling eyelashes. Harry braced himself. This was usually the point when Dobby would burst out crying and fling his arms around Harry. At least Harry didn’t think he’d have to deal with this particular elf talking about how “Harry Potter was a great wizard.”  
  
But the thought made a little stab of pain travel up the middle of his chest anyway.  
  
 _I miss Dobby._  
  
“Master Harry Potter is being strange,” whispered the elf. “Talking about an elf’s free will.” He shook himself once, but he still didn’t back way or look down, which were “normal” things to do. “Elves haves no free will.”  
  
“Sometimes they do,” Draco said, and Harry was glad he had come forwards to take part in the conversation now. Ultimately, Draco was the one who was Lucius Malfoy’s son and commanded the part of the elf that was pure elf. “This ritual is one of the times. I want you to participate in it and look at the memories and—decide for yourself what you really want.”  
  
His voice caught. Harry reached out and looped an arm behind his neck, then staggered when Draco leaned on him strongly. He hadn’t expected that much weight.  
  
“All right, Master Malfoy,” said the elf uncertainly, and spent some more time looking back and forth between them. Then he nodded and stood straighter. “Master Malfoy is being satisfied? I can go?”  
  
“Yes, you can go,” Draco said, and leaned some more on Harry.  
  
When the elf had vanished, Harry turned Draco to face him and gently kissed his chin. Draco nodded without looking up. “I’m convinced this is the right thing to do,” he said. “I didn’t change my mind—since.”  
  
“Good,” Harry said quietly.  
  
If Draco could be convinced it was the right thing to do even knowing he might never see his father again, if the elf chose to stay an elf…  
  
Harry kissed him again, because he had to convey his admiration for that, and then Draco lifted his head and the kisses changed, and Harry gladly thought about something else other than grief and hardship for a while.


	42. The First Winding

“We cannot compel the will of any being to enter this ritual,” said Fleur, and turned and studied Harry and the others, who stood on the edge of the meadow. Harry shivered as he felt her eyes pass over him. It was like being poked directly with large needles. “If there is anyone here who would rather not be here, leave now.”  
  
Silence. Harry glanced at Draco, and Ron and Hermione, and Bill, and the house-elf. The house-elf was the only one that looked violently unhappy, but a second later, that expression passed out of his eyes and left them blank. His gaze was fixed on the meadow with its strings of copper bells, though, and he looked as though he was tracing those strings up and down, trying to understand the pattern.  
  
“Good,” said Fleur softly, and stepped back. She had a pinch of dust in her hand, Harry thought at first. Then he realized it was the powdered obsidian Draco had located for her in an obscure apothecary.  
  
She tossed it into the air.  
  
The powdered obsidian drifted back and forth, tugged by winds that Harry didn’t feel in his eyes or hair until several seconds afterwards. Then it settled on the bells and vines, and made them give a single, muffled chime. The house-elf jumped in place, and stared and shook his head as though the ring had been words the rest of them couldn’t hear.  
  
“Now that this has begun, it must not be stopped,” Fleur said, with a ragged edge to her voice. Harry wondered, suddenly, how much strain she must be under, knowing that she was responsible for a ritual that could easily kill or injure someone. “Into the maze, Harry.” She turned and gave him a single smile. “Good luck.”  
  
Harry closed his eyes. That actually helped him remember what he was supposed to do better than just reciting the words in his head, because he’d spent so much time staring at a list of written instructions that the words floated on paper in his mind.  
  
 _Around the corner that Ron and I strung with the heaviest bells. Around those other two curves that look like a Muggle road you would die driving on. And to the center with the heaviest steps I can._  
  
He felt like he was tromping as he passed through the strings of bells, but he didn’t make them ring, and that was important. He finally ended up in the center and faced Fleur and the others again.  
  
Ron and Hermione had dispersed to opposite sides of the meadow, ready to enter the pattern at different points. Draco and the house-elf were standing where they’d been when Harry last looked, though, and so was Fleur. Draco had a hand on the house-elf’s shoulder.  
  
 _Into the maze,_ Harry mouthed. He didn’t know if Draco could read his lips from this distance, but it was the next thing they were supposed to do, and Draco knew it as well as he did.  
  
Draco bobbed his head and licked his lips as though calming down his nervousness, then led the house-elf forwards.  
  
Harry watched them wend a different path than Harry had, although they still turned three corners before they paused in the middle of a little X where two different paths of bells crossed on either side of them. Draco turned his head, obviously seeking reassurance, before he nodded and settled back. Harry thought he was relaxing as much as he could.  
  
In fact, he bowed his head and whispered to the house-elf, and that was a good thing, Harry thought. It meant Harry could stop watching and turn to Fleur for the next step.  
  
Fleur had her head bowed over a tiny object cupped in her hands. Harry knew it would be a mirror, exactly the size of Fleur’s right palm. It had taken a lot of chipping and charms to make it the right size.  
  
Then again, they wouldn’t be performing this ritual at all if they didn’t have the magic that would help them arrive at the right conclusion.  
  
Fleur looked up, gave Harry a wan smile, and threw her hand suddenly forwards. The mirror gleamed like a falling star as it streaked across the strings of bells, and there was a glitter of light and power behind that it couldn’t have come from any charm Harry knew of.  
  
Then he felt the heavy gathering of weight on his shoulders and pressure in his ears, like he’d suddenly flown to a high mountaintop. He shivered in awe. Yes, this was the moment when the ritual began to work.  
  
The mirror circled around Harry’s head for a second, as if examining him and determining that he wasn’t the most important person in the ritual. Harry was relieved when it flew on to Draco. Even though he’d seen no eye peering out of the glass, the way he had when he suddenly saw Aberforth Dumbledore in Sirius’s broken mirror, it was unnerving to have a piece of metal staring at him.  
  
The mirror turned a slower circle around Draco’s head. Harry kept his eyes on him and the house-elf, even though he heard Ron and Hermione entering the maze of strings now. He knew Ron and Hermione would do what they’d agreed to, and play their parts well.  
  
Besides, right now nothing they were about to do was as dramatic as Draco’s confrontation with the mirror. Depending on the judgment the mirror made, the ritual would need to turn in a certain direction. Harry knew what one they _hoped_ for—it was the one they’d practiced most—but Fleur had warned them all that there was an element of chance or luck to it.  
  
And truth. If Draco hadn’t been able to bring himself to free his father after all, if he _thought_ that was what he wanted but it turned out not to be the truth…  
  
But Draco faced the mirror unflinchingly. And after a moment, it settled to his shoulder like a bright bird.  
  
Harry shivered, ignoring the way that Fleur’s eyes went to him. He hadn’t known how much he was counting on the truth of Draco’s feelings being reflected back until it had worked.  
  
The house-elf moved slowly forwards, holding out his wrist as though he wanted the green band off it. Draco whispered something to him Harry couldn’t hear. Fleur had warned him there were parts of the ritual he _wouldn’t_ be able to hear. They were only for Draco and his father, or the entity that they hoped still slept inside the house-elf as part of Lucius Malfoy.  
  
Harry watched as the band on the house-elf’s wrist began to sparkle and brighten like there were diamonds hidden among the soft folds. The mirror left Draco’s shoulder and floated along above the elf. But he didn’t look back at it. His stare was fixed on the bells.  
  
Which had started to sway and chime, even though there was _still_ no breeze to move them.  
  
The bells rose and clanged hard enough, as they swung back and forth and the elf neared them, that Harry thought the vines would surely tear. But either the magic of the ritual or the magic he and Ron had performed the other day held. The elf was soon among the bells, all of which somehow rang without touching him. The mirror had turned and come down slowly in front of him.  
  
Harry wondered what was going through his brain—half-elf and half-human—as he looked at that single bright square of glass. Harry supposed he would never know.  
  
The elf abruptly shrieked and flung up an arm in front of his eyes. Harry saw Fleur’s hand fly out, and reckoned she was holding back Bill and maybe other people whose time to enter the ritual hadn’t come yet. There was nothing they could do for the elf now.  
  
He had to have his own confrontation with the magic that ran wild inside this ritual and the bells, and survive.  
  
Trembling, the elf finally looked again. The mirror hadn’t moved and nothing had changed, as far as Harry could tell. The bells still rang, after all, and the glow of light from the square of glass was exactly the same.  
  
In fact, the elf now seemed fascinated instead of afraid. He moved closer and closer, peering up, and the mirror floated down in front of him. Now his face was right against it, nose pressed to the glass.  
  
And the moment came—Harry felt it in the subtle, sudden prodding of the magic at him—for things to change, for Harry to perform another part in this magnificent interplay.  
  
He turned and walked down a corridor of bells that had opened up in front of him. He knew it was part of the ritual, because these bells were silver instead of copper. Hermione had been gathering silver ones, but he hadn’t seen her put them up anywhere.  
  
Now he thought he understood what Fleur had meant when she’d told him—rather vaguely, he’d thought then—that all the ingredients for the ritual would find their proper place and time.  
  
The silver bells trembled and murmured to themselves, but their pure, sweet tones were subdued compared to the loud music still ringing out behind Harry. He raised a hand, but nothing changed. He relaxed a little. Fleur had told him that he couldn’t do much to affect the ritual except actually snap the strings or try to put Lucius back inside the house-elf’s body.  
  
It was still nice to be sure little gestures wouldn’t disrupt it, though.  
  
The silver bells ended, and in the middle of a clearing of light, as though someone overhead was shining down a spotlight on a stage, stood Hermione.  
  
Harry smiled at her. The air around them flickered and familiar images began to appear: Hermione standing in the girls’ bathroom in front of the troll, Hermione taking his Firebolt to be examined for curses and jinxes, Hermione running with him in the search for the Deathly Hallows, Hermione conjuring birds to send at Ron.  
  
And there was more than that, always more. Hermione in tall Healer’s robes laughing with him in an unknown room. Hermione leaning over his bed in hospital, face tight and worried. Hermione bouncing Rose on her knee and talking with a man that must be Old Harry; he was the only unfamiliar thing in that particular scene.  
  
Fleur had told him that the ritual would smooth out the tangled webs and ways that ran between him and his friends, in one fashion or the other. Because his friends were part of Harry’s life, and Harry was part of Draco’s, and just as Harry needed his enemies gone so Lucius could be freed—in a way—Draco needed Harry to have more tranquil relationships with his friends.  
  
Hermione took his hands and kissed his cheek. Her smile was misty, and Harry suddenly doubted she was seeing the same memories he did. Maybe more from the ten years that were gone. “You’re still a wonderful person, Harry,” she whispered. “And bravery is still more important than books and cleverness.”  
  
Harry hugged her hard, and for a moment felt as if she was the most real thing he had ever touched, her frizzy hair crisping against his chin and her arms clasping his ribs so hard it was as if she was trying to hold broken ones together.  
  
Then she dissolved in front of him, and there was another corridor to traverse.  
  
This one was made entirely of mirrors. They sprouted from the ground, which had turned misty and soft and silvery. Harry didn’t bother looking around for the meadow, the copper bells, or the others. He knew he wouldn’t find them.  
  
What he saw in every glass, when he moved close enough to be sure of the reflections, was the house-elf staring at him with big grey eyes.  
  
Harry paused, disconcerted. He had thought the next part of the ritual would be his reconciliation with Ron, but it seemed not. Instead, he had to confront _his_ feelings for Lucius Malfoy, and decide what they were.   
  
If he hated him too much, the bastard might remain trapped in the house-elf’s body forever. Because Harry and Draco were linked, and their emotions ricocheted back and forth between each other’s bodies now, leaping and touching so many bonds that Harry felt a little dizzy and sick at the thought of all the interconnections.   
  
The mirrors began to change even as Harry thought that, and he was back in Flourish and Blotts, watching Lucius slip a diary into Ginny Weasley’s cauldron.  
  
Harry had to clench his teeth. He might not be in love with Ginny anymore, but he remembered the way she had hurt from being possessed by Tom Riddle, and it wasn’t easy to decide that Lucius had suffered enough for that. He really hadn’t suffered at _all_ , except that he’d had to let Dobby go.  
  
The scene changed again, and Harry was watching himself dig Dobby’s grave in another mirror. He paused, uncertain. Lucius hadn’t really had anything to do with that…  
  
Except that they’d been escaping from Malfoy Manor, and if Lucius hadn’t been a Death Eater and utterly _unable_ to stand up to Voldemort, then Dobby might have lived.  
  
Harry shook his head a little, and touched his brow. It was as though someone sat on the nape of his neck and whispered thoughts in his ear. His head ached and scorched with those thoughts, and he didn’t know if he would have had all these bad memories of Lucius without them.  
  
He marched on to another mirror. Lucius was firing curses at Harry’s friends in the Department of Mysteries, and not everyone dodged.  
  
Lucius was laughing at Arthur Weasley.  
  
Lucius was turning his head away from Draco—not a memory Harry had, but the way he imagined the confrontation between Lucius and Draco turning out.  
  
Harry struggled to breathe, and thought he might have managed to calm his breathing down when he turned another corner and found the largest mirror of all waiting for him. It was shaped like the one that had hovered above the house-elf, but it covered one enormous “wall” of this place, and it held yet another memory.  
  
Lucius Malfoy standing in the graveyard as Voldemort resurrected himself with Wormtail’s help. His mask was off, which maybe had been true in the original ritual; Harry didn’t remember. He was staring at the writhing, bleeding fourteen-year-old Harry with haughty disdain that curled his lip.  
  
For Harry, it was only four years ago, not fourteen. His breathing was hard enough to rattle his teeth, he thought. He had to close his eyes and try to recover himself.  
  
He really didn’t think any of the Death Eaters had had their masks off. And he knew, after the war, that Lucius hadn’t really wanted to serve Voldemort. He didn’t even know that because someone had told him; he knew it because he had his own memories of the Malfoys sitting huddled together in the Great Hall, and Lucius asking where Draco was during the Battle of Hogwarts.  
  
Even if Lucius had sneered at him years ago, it was as likely to be a survival tactic as anything else. And Harry didn’t think he had the right to assume anything unless he actually had the memory.  
  
Which he wasn’t sure he did.  
  
He turned his back on the mirror and walked to the far edge of the room. Well, the edge that had just appeared. He didn’t think it had been there before.  
  
The mist parted before him as he reached out and shoved it away. And Harry was standing again in a maze of copper bells, blinking at the vines and the air swirling around him, turning his head even as he knew what he would see.  
  
The house-elf still stared into the mirror hovering in front of him, and Draco was just crossing through one of the circles and curves and crisscrosses of bells to come to a halt behind him.  
  
For a moment, Harry thought—without being able to see whether it was so—that the mirror would reflect both of them. Father and son, or house-elf and master, or both, or neither, shimmering in the glass.  
  
Draco put his hand on the house-elf’s shoulder again. The green band on the elf’s arm flashed again as if with tiny diamonds placed there, and for a second lightning seemed to leap between the ground and the mirror and the band.  
  
When Harry could see again, there was a triangle of gigantic mirrors standing in the center of the maze, surrounded by ringing bells that never touched them. The elf had vanished behind them. Draco stepped back from them, swallowing and looking shaken.  
  
And Harry heard the sharp, unmistakable cracks of Apparition off to the side.  
  
He turned his head and surged to his feet, making sure he had the Elder Wand close at hand. Fleur had warned him that before the house-elf could make a final choice, or change, he had to confront his enemies. Once again, the pattern of Draco’s life and the elf’s choice was bound up with Harry’s life.  
  
There were three wizards walking towards him, with Kelvin leading them. Harry raised his wand, and turned into a corridor clear of bells to begin the next exercise of free will.  
  



	43. A Maze of Mirrors

Kelvin was in the lead. He saw Harry and lifted his hand with a faint smile. “I thought you might be one of the first who came to meet us, Mr. Potter.” He reached out and casually kicked one of the strings of copper bells out of the way.  
  
Harry kept his hands relaxed. He knew that his friends and Draco could only come to help him if they were at the right points in the ritual. Otherwise, they would be bound by the conditions of the choices they had made before.  
  
On the other side, there was the sharp humming of the Elder Wand in his hand, and there were two figures behind Kelvin. Fewer than he had feared, more than he’d hoped. He stood and waited.  
  
Kelvin took a vial from one pocket and casually began to juggle it. Green light shone through the glass, brightening rapidly, with a yellow edge to the glow that picked up and grew bright enough that Harry had to squint.  
  
“You asked me once about battle potions,” Kelvin said casually. “I could never make them fast enough for you. Or perhaps uncomplicated enough. You wanted potions _anyone_ could use in battle, and that could be used at any time.” He smiled with what seemed to be genuine amusement. “Which meant you, of course. I know you were always…unsophisticated in Potions theory. That might be the polite way to put it.”  
  
The hooded figures began to spread out, one on either side of Kelvin. Harry kept his attention mostly on Kelvin, but spared a little for them.  
  
“Well.” Kelvin held up the glowing vial. “It might also be fair to say that I never had incentive enough to achieve such potions before now. Working for someone who blackmailed me into it isn’t enough incentive.”  
  
He glanced at his allies, smiled a little, then said softly, “Catch, Harry Potter,” and tossed the vial towards him.  
  
Harry had no idea what the potion would do, and no intention of letting it get close enough to find out. He held up the Elder Wand, and it barked a spell into his thoughts, another one of those he didn’t know, the way it had given him the countercurse to Draco’s attempt to turn him into a tree.  
  
“ _Convello anima!_ ”  
  
The vial gleamed for a moment as though the potion had begun to pour out of it even before it shattered, and then it spun wildly apart. The yellow light zipped out of the green liquid. Harry dodged as the liquid fell around him, but he didn’t think he really needed to worry about it, and he was right; even though one drop splashed on him, it did nothing except make his skin burn a little. And the potion that fell on the bells and the meadow grass did nothing to them, either.  
  
The yellow light was something different, was the heart and soul of the potion, and as it sped towards him, Harry knew he would have to do something different, too, to handle it.  
  
The Elder Wand knew what to do, and it was almost singing in his head and hand as it whispered the next spell.  
  
“ _Spargo anima!_ ”  
  
The spell that came forth from his wand this time was a long, lazy spiral that split into two spirals as Harry watched, each of which split into two spirals, and so on, until there was a maze of them between him and the yellow light. The light tried to dodge, but no matter where it went, it had to brush against some part of Harry’s spell, and it was eaten as soon as that happened.  
  
Harry turned back to Kelvin and the other two wizards, hoping they hadn’t attacked his friends while he’d been busy watching the yellow light dissolve. He should have learned better than to take his eyes off his enemies for so long through the war, even if he didn’t remember training as an Auror anymore.  
  
Kelvin stared at him with a dazed expression. Harry held back his smirk as best he could, and only nodded a little. “Not what you were expecting, Kelvin?” he taunted almost gently. “You might as well back out now, you know.”  
  
Kelvin took another vial from his pocket without answering and simply tossed it on the ground, where it broke.  
  
The Elder Wand was guiding Harry’s hand forwards before he thought about it, and the spell came out of it. “ _Elicio tholum!_ ”  
  
The air congealed above the vial, and then formed into what Harry thought was probably a variation on the Shield Charm, except it was a dome instead of an actual shield. A dome that sat above the vial, caging in the nasty effects of the fumes with little effort.  
  
One of the wizards behind Kelvin whispered harshly, “I thought you said he forgot all about battle!”  
  
“It’s his wand, not him.” Kelvin’s face was transformed by its harsh snarl; he looked as if he would have twisted Harry’s head off with his bare hands, if he could have reached him. He moved a slow step forwards, never looking away from Harry. “I actually planned for this to be quick. Either of those potions would have killed you before you could do more than breathe them in.”  
  
“I don’t believe you,” said Harry. The Elder Wand wasn’t pulling or tugging on his arm or whispering spells into his head anymore, and it wasn’t telling him the truth about Kelvin, either. Harry simply looked him in the eye and spoke what he was sure _was_ the truth, whether or not Kelvin wanted him to know it. “You always intended for me to die as messily as possible. Both because you hate me and because you wanted to warn others about what would happen if they betrayed you.”  
  
Kelvin stared at him in silence, and then relaxed and laughed. “Very good, Harry. Yes, I always intended that. I suppose there’s no need for deceptions between friends as old as we are, is there?” He began to work his way casually around to Harry’s right, taking over for the wizard who’d stood there.  
  
Harry swallowed. Even with the Elder Wand’s help, he wasn’t sure how he could face three trained Dark wizards alone.  
  
But he had to try. Even this was part of the ritual.  
  
One of the strings of bells trembled as one of Kelvin’s friends kicked it. But for some reason, the ring didn’t subside. It picked up and zoomed back and forth, and now Harry was hearing bells ring that he couldn’t see, bells that were concealed by the rise of the ground.  
  
“What is that?” Kelvin asked sharply, his head turned.  
  
Harry opened his mouth to answer, although he honestly didn’t know what he would have said. And then the bells trembled again, and Ron was there, leaping over them as if he knew instinctively where they were.  
  
Harry found himself falling back with his shoulders pressed against Ron’s as though this were something they had done hundreds of times. Well, more to the point, as if it was something he _remembered_ doing hundreds of times. He wondered for a second if he might have muscle memory of fighting beside Ron when they were both Aurors.  
  
Ron was thinking along the same lines. Harry heard him laugh. “Like old times,” he whispered.  
  
Harry nodded, and then he was letting the Elder Wand pull him into battle with the first wizard in front of him, the one who had asked Kelvin how much Harry remembered. He seemed to favor fighting with enchanted weapons, since the first thing he did was toss a bunch of small, whizzing metal balls that glowed blue at Harry.  
  
The Elder Wand raised a shield that bounced two of them, but the third one came on, aiming straight for Harry’s jaw. Harry flinched back. He could imagine how it would feel if it hit, and—  
  
But the Elder Wand was already tracing a cross shape in front of him, and the metal ball suddenly paused and hovered like a Snitch for a second. Harry blinked dazedly at it, wondering if he would see little wings around it. He’d thought they just flew by enchantments, but, well, a Snitch didn’t.  
  
Then the ball turned and zoomed back at the man who had tossed them at Harry. The man dodged, but it didn’t matter. The ball slammed into his left hand and broke some fingers, from the sound of the scream he gave. Harry shook his head and turned to cover Ron, who was dueling with the second Dark wizard.  
  
It looked like Ron had it under control, though. He’d made the wizard’s wand jerk around in his hand, even though it appeared to have something on it that protected it against the Disarming Charm, and now the wizard was reeling back from his own spell. He dismissed it, but not in time to escape Ron’s Tripping Jinx. In seconds, he was on the ground.  
  
Kelvin was the only one who stood now, and he turned his head back and forth slowly. At first Harry thought he was looking out for other enemies who might spring over the bells. But then he realized Kelvin was simply shaking his head.  
  
“Well, _really_ ,” Kelvin muttered. “One would think they could handle battle with a single Auror and another Auror who forgot all his training.”  
  
“You could give up now,” Ron said, in the sort of tone that Harry had the impression he’d used a lot. He didn’t expect it to work, but the thought was so nice that he couldn’t help suggesting it to criminals. “Drop your wand and come quietly. I’d speak up for you and your common sense at the trial.”  
  
Kelvin smiled and drew his cloak in around him like wings. “You know,” he said, “one must decide on one’s priorities. If it was my life, I would do as you say. If it was freedom, then I would escape now.” He turned to face Harry, and his face was alight with savage red. Harry found himself falling back one step.  
  
“But my priority,” Kelvin whispered, “has always been revenge.”  
  
He drew his wand and touched it to what looked like a brass button on the front of his robes, muttering something. Then he raced towards Harry and jumped at him, screaming like an Augurey.  
  
Harry saw flames springing up around Kelvin, and tried to dodge. Not even the Elder Wand would help him if it got burned to ash.  
  
But the wand held him in place, and a sweet thrumming filled Harry’s whole being. This time, he didn’t even move the wand. He simply opened his mouth and spoke the incantation for the spell that the wand knew. “ _Opprimo_.”  
  
The flames around Kelvin went out even as he grabbed Harry’s robes and hauled him towards him. In instants, his eyes opened wider than Harry had known they could. He tried to disentangle himself and roll backwards.  
  
It didn’t work. Instead, something bright and glowing filled his mouth, and then plunged down his throat and into his chest.   
  
Kelvin tried to scream, Harry thought then. But the glowing thing still filled his throat and chest, and shook him around. He kicked and flailed his legs, and his noises were even more muffled than before. There were bright yellow tendrils extended around his face now, masking his ears, and Harry trembled as he listened to Kelvin suffocate in front of him.  
  
Ron sprinted past him, his face set. He crouched down beside Kelvin and began trying to dispel the magic by pass after pass of his wand. Nothing was working, from what Harry could see, but still Ron tried.  
  
“What are you doing?” Harry asked, gasping, bewildered.  
  
“I can’t let him die,” Ron snapped, staring at him for one moment before he turned back to Kelvin. “Aurors bring in our prisoners alive unless we have _no choice_.”  
  
Harry just blinked at Ron’s back for a second, and then he shook his head and hurried over. He didn’t know for sure, but he highly suspected, that Ron wasn’t about to succeed unless the Elder Wand _let_ him. It had been the one to cast this spell. It was the one who could maintain it until Kelvin was dead.  
  
Or let it go.  
  
 _You cast the spell using me as an instrument,_ Harry snapped in his mind as he knelt beside Kelvin, who was spasming now, and drew the damned wand. _I want you to let it go using me as the instrument._  
  
If he felt silly talking to his wand, at least he knew it was going to respond. The Elder Wand abruptly heated up against his hand, and Harry would have dropped it if he wasn’t so determined.  
  
And if he hadn’t felt a lot worse pain than that. There was an advantage to having memories of the Cruciatus Curse that felt fresh, even if they were ten years old.  
  
He waited until the wand stopped burning, although it meant he had to wait while Ron cursed breathlessly and Kelvin’s face turned more and more of a shade of puce. _I know you can hear me. You were the one who came back to me and prevented me from taking up my holly wand again. Work the way I bid you._  
  
There was a silent moment when Harry felt as if he was on the dipping side of a pair of scales. He ignored the unease coiling in his stomach. So what if he was? The Elder Wand was still his servant, not the other way around. He held Ron’s gaze, and then the wand seemed to sigh and a trickle of magic curled out of one end.  
  
The magic was forming into a silvery-white blade. Harry nearly cut Ron and then Kelvin with it before he figured out what it was for and got the wand pointed in the right direction. Then he could twist it, and it sliced through the tight mask of light the first spell had put over Kelvin’s mouth and nose.  
  
Kelvin arched up as he breathed. The magic of the first spell and the second spell both turned into cold white light at the same time and sped away, and Harry sat back and wiped his burned hand on his knee. “He should be all right now,” he offered, without looking at Ron.  
  
Ron cast a few charms that Harry didn’t know, maybe to check on Kelvin’s health or lungs, and then one he did: a Stunner. When he’d conjured ropes to bind Kelvin and the other two wizards, he turned and stood in front of Harry, face solemn.  
  
Then he held his hand out.  
  
Harry took Ron’s wrist with his own hand shaking slightly. Ron didn’t shake his, only stood there, then squeezed down firmly enough that Harry’s bones hurt and let him go. “We need to find out what’s going on with the rest of the ritual,” he said, turning in the direction of the bell-strands.  
  
Harry relaxed. Ron hadn’t become reconciled to him through the ritual, the way Hermione had and Fleur had planned on, but it seemed their individual choices had had an effect. They were together again.  
  
They moved slowly towards the center of the meadow. Harry listened as hard as he could, but he couldn’t make out any noises. No shouts, no laughter, no breaking of glass like he thought would come along with the breaking of mirrors, no ringing of bells.  
  
No, wait, _there_. It did sound as if one strand of bells was ringing, directly behind a green mist that was rising in front of them where nothing had been a few seconds before.  
  
“Do we go through that mist?” Ron muttered, hesitating and glancing sideways at Harry.  
  
“I don’t know that we’ve got a whole lot of choice,” Harry said, and smiled a little as he noted the way Ron was staring at him. “Yes, I know that doesn’t sound comforting.”  
  
“But we had to make our choices to be part of this ritual. So, _theoretically_ , our choices should have a lot of power.”  
  
Harry nodded at the mist. “But we’ve got to get through that no matter what. So even if we make a choice not to enter it, that’s still influencing the outcome of the ritual.”  
  
“Can’t you use the Elder Wand and blast it away?”  
  
Harry touched the Elder Wand. Ever since he had reversed the deadly spell on Kelvin, the thing had felt a lot more like a piece of dead wood, the warm connection Harry had sensed with it when he cast the earlier spells in the duel muted. “That’s a choice I won’t make. Especially not when it could upset lots of delicate little pieces in the ritual.”  
  
“Oh, fine,” Ron sighed, and walked towards the mist with as much bravado as he could muster, which wasn’t much at that point. “But I’m making you buy me a drink if this mist burns my throat.”  
  
Harry followed him. “At least this way,” he added, when Ron stared at him as if he was crazy, “it’ll burn _both_ our throats.”  
  
“True. But you’re still paying for the whole round.”  
  
Harry grinned and started to respond, and then realized the mist was moving around them. It honestly didn’t feel much except damp and cold, despite the color. He reached out a hand and scooped some up, and it didn’t sting him even when he held it closely. He shrugged and let it go.  
  
“Maybe that’s the result of a choice someone else made,” he told Ron as they emerged from it again. “A choice not to harm other people.”  
  
Ron opened his mouth, probably to say what he thought of that, and then he and Harry stumbled out of the green mist and towards a triangle of familiar mirrors. Harry blinked in surprise. He supposed there was no good reason why the ritual should be finished already and Lucius should already be pulled out of the house-elf, but it had _felt_ like that was what they were heading towards.   
  
Draco stood with one hand resting on the nearest mirror, his head bowed. He turned towards Harry and simply whirled, burying his head in Harry’s chest. He would have fallen if Harry hadn’t caught him in sheer shock.  
  
“He’s still in there,” Draco whispered. “I can hear him asking for help, but Weasley says I can’t go in to him.” His fingers grasped Harry’s sleeves hard enough to hurt his wrists. “I don’t know what to _do_.”  
  
Harry cleared his throat a little and said, “We’ll find a way.”  
  
He guided Draco closer to the mirrors, his gaze on them all the time. And he meant what he’d said.  
  
 _If there’s anything_ I _can do to set Lucius Malfoy free, I’ll do it. That’s another of my choices._   
  



	44. Lucius's Choice

The mirrors seemed to loom larger and larger the closer Harry got to them. He could see his own exhausted face reflected in them, and Draco stumbled at his side and reached out with one hand as though to prevent himself from looking at his own expression.  
  
“It’ll be all right,” Harry murmured, and pulled Draco against his side. The surface of the mirrors didn’t seem to offer much in the way of clues, so he examined the carved and ornamented frames instead.  
  
They looked like they were made of green stone. They had coiling serpents on them, and dancing dragons. Harry wondered if that was the symbolism of Draco’s name, or just a general continuation of the serpent theme, but had to admit they would probably never know. It was probably Lucius who had made them that way.  
  
And Lucius wasn’t communicating with any of them right now.  
  
“What kinds of choices did you make while I was gone?” Harry asked, walking slowly around the mirrors. They really did form a perfect triangle, running into each other with no gaps. When he reached out and touched the glass, it was perfectly cold, too, and unyielding. This wasn’t like the mist he and Ron had moved through. “Anything that you think would make your father less likely to come back?”  
  
Draco choked a little, and Harry hugged him. He hated that choke, but he’d had to ask.  
  
“I don’t know,” Draco whispered. “But I must have decided that I didn’t want him back. Mustn’t I? Otherwise he would have come out by now.”  
  
“I don’t know for sure. There’s so little that anyone but Fleur knows about this.”  
  
“Well, at least the mirrors didn’t break and hurt anyone else,” Ron interjected. “So maybe he’s in there and he dislikes you, Malfoy, but he doesn’t hate you enough to hurt you. Or maybe he’s thinking things over.”  
  
Harry caught Ron’s eye, and smiled at him a little. Ron spread his arms in a silent shrug that Harry could read as though Ron had written the words on the air with his wand. _I don’t like him, but I’m not going to hurt him._  
  
“I need to be _sure_.”  
  
“So you didn’t call out to him?” Harry asked. “Pound on the mirrors? Ask him what was going on?”  
  
Draco gave him a startled look that quickly turned into one of those head-tilts where he apparently invited other people to see up his nostrils. “Of course I did. I wanted to know what was going _on_ in there.”  
  
Harry nodded. “Even that kind of thing is a choice. Leaving the mirrors and running away after me would have been one, too, but maybe you concerned him a bit. Especially if he woke up without his memory right away, or with his memories and the house-elf’s mixed.”  
  
“I didn’t realize…” Draco let his voice trail off, and then said strongly, “If _any_ decision we make like that can influence the outcome, then how are we supposed to dare to do anything? I could have condemned Father to death without knowing it!”  
  
Harry actually thought that was less likely to happen, if only because this was the first time Draco had called Lucius “Father” in a week or more. But he nodded and said, “That’s the tricky part about the ritual. Remember? Fleur told us. It’s all about interacting decisions and some of the choices that we don’t even realize we’re making.”  
  
“Why did I go to a magical theorist in the first place?”  
  
Harry slipped his arm around Draco’s shoulders again and hugged him. “Because you wanted your father back. That’s not wrong. We just need to figure out how to make sure that you _get_ him back.” He led Draco up to the mirrors and nodded. “Put your hand flat on that nearest one and tell me what you feel.”  
  
Draco closed his eyes and traced his palm, then his fingers, slowly over the glass. “I don’t know.”  
  
“You don’t _know_?”  
  
“It doesn’t feel like anything. Flat. Cold. Even.” Draco turned and stared at Harry with the kind of upset that could turn into panic. “What else am I _supposed_ to feel?”  
  
“Nothing in particular,” Harry said soothingly, and wished with all his heart that Fleur’s particular decisions had let her be here in the center of the ritual. “Cold is something, though. Why would the mirrors have a reason to be cold?”  
  
“It’s outside,” Draco said, in the kind of voice that suggested he didn’t have much respect for Harry’s brains. “And all that mist that’s been drifting around was bound to affect the glass somehow.”  
  
“But you’re not cold, are you?” Harry waited until Draco actually shook his head and started concentrating on something other than the mirrors directly in front of him. “So the glass doesn’t _have_ to be cold. What we need to do is figure out why that is, and maybe make the kind of decision that will warm it up.”  
  
“How am I supposed to know that when I don’t know which of my choices made it cold in the first place?”  
  
Harry held Draco lightly until he stopped trembling and the wail in his voice was past, and then said gently, “You don’t know it was you. It could have been Lucius, or me, or Kelvin. But it will be changing something inexplicable, and that means it’s a good place to begin. You see?”  
  
“Not really.”  
  
“It’s all right. I’ll be at your side while we figure this out.”  
  
“And that’s what’s holding me up,” Draco whispered. His fingers curled for a second around the bone of Harry’s arm, so hard that Harry had to hide a wince. “I wouldn’t have been able to go through with this at all if not for you…”  
  
Harry just leaned a warm shoulder against him in support. Draco moved a step or so forwards, his gaze fixed on the mirrors now. He was frowning the way Harry had seen him frown over a potion or a spell, and Harry relaxed. If he could take this as an intellectual puzzle to be solved, instead of something to personally blame himself for, then they’d overcome an important barrier already.  
  
“I don’t think I said anything about not wanting to see my father again,” Draco whispered, and slid a hand over the mirrors, watching them intently. “Or even thought it. I don’t know where Father would have got an idea I did.” Then a spasm passed over his face, and he looked at Harry uncertainly. “Unless it was something I didn’t know I felt, like I hesitated all those years because of.”  
  
“For now, we might as well think that it wasn’t,” Harry told him cheerfully. “Because we should deal with the easy possibilities first and only confront the ones that are harder later.”  
  
Draco snorted a little. “If you use that philosophy to live your life, then some of your decisions make sense to me now that didn’t at the time.” He closed his eyes again, and moved one hand across the mirror as if feeling for imperfections in it. “Did you think anything about my father, Weasley?”  
  
“Just that I wished he would change form from the house-elf already so we could stop this bloody ritual,” said Ron, and Harry suspected he’d been startled into being honest.  
  
“But you didn’t make a decision because of it.”  
  
“No. I went to fight at Harry’s side because I knew the ritual would pull people in who wanted to harm him, and he’s my bloody best mate. Nothing to do with your bloody father.”  
  
Harry thought Draco might bristle at Ron’s tone, but he just nodded as if that all made perfect sense. Well, with the kind of detached mood he was in, maybe it did. Draco continued to move his hands across the mirrors in wide circles that reminded Harry of the motions he used to make when he scrubbed the Dursleys’ counters.  
  
“Then perhaps it was something other Weasleys did,” Draco whispered. “Some force of character, complaint, decision…” He was quiet for a second, and then shook his head. “I can’t know that for sure, and I won’t waste my time worrying about it.”  
  
Harry smiled, his heart bounding. Even for the sake of his father, he hadn’t been sure Draco would be able to put aside his enmity for Harry’s other friends.  
  
Then Draco stretched out his free hand without opening his eyes or taking the other one off the mirrors, and Harry sensed that things might have got hard again. “Come here, Harry. I can’t do this without you.”  
  
If Draco had decided that, then more than likely it was true. Harry slipped up beside him and stood patiently waiting, while Draco’s hand on the mirrors continued to move in those scrubbing circles. Harry stared at his reflection where Draco’s hand had passed, and thought it was a little strange that Draco left no marks at all, no streaks or imperfections.  
  
“I need to think about him,” Draco whispered. “I need to draw him back towards me, and think of him the way he was.” He turned his head towards Harry, still without opening his eyes. “I need you to tell me what you think of him.”  
  
“Why?” Harry swallowed, his mind flooded with memories of Lucius Malfoy that were decidedly not the kind a loving son needed. And they were all he had. If he had ever met Lucius after the war, he wouldn’t know about it. “I think this is something you need to do on your own.”  
  
“But I’m choosing to have you involved. And if you refuse to help me, that’s also a choice.”  
  
 _Damn Fleur and this magical theory anyway._ It seemed to Harry to reach out and encompass so many different things that anything they did could affect the delicate pattern of the ritual, and that meant he could be as responsible as Draco if Lucius didn’t emerge from the house-elf correctly.  
  
On the other hand, so could Fleur and Ron and Hermione and Bill and Kelvin and Lucius himself. A little calmer now that he thought this impossible burden didn’t rest on just his shoulders, Harry nodded and began.  
  
“I think he’s horrible for passing on the diary to Ginny in her first year. It’s true that he might not have known what it would do, but he knew it was a Dark artifact. I saw him trying to get rid of it in Knockturn Alley. And he didn’t care about what a Dark artifact would do to a young girl.”  
  
Draco winced and started to say something, but he changed it to a little indrawn breath and a nod. “Look,” he whispered.  
  
There was a crack in the mirror in front of them, on one of the places where Draco had rubbed his hand without effect.  
  
Draco turned back and finally removed both hands from the mirrors, catching Harry’s. “Say something else,” he whispered. “Say something else that’s honest and true and—” He seemed to struggle for a second. “Loudly expressed.”  
  
Harry snorted, and he wasn’t sure if it was because of Draco’s words or because of what the mirrors seemed to consider worth changing for. “All right. I think he was stupid to become a Death Eater. He could have had a lot of prestige in wizarding society without that, and Voldemort probably wouldn’t have targeted him unless he actively joined the Order of the Phoenix. But he had to let his pride and his idiocy overpower his good judgment. Where did it get him? Being ordered around by someone else. What I thought he was _trying_ to avoid.”  
  
Draco caught his breath, pain shadowing his eyes, but the mirrors responded. With a roar like thunder, another crack split the one in front of them, from side to side. And Harry saw flakes of glass spinning in the air like snow, slicing past him without harming him and falling to the ground.  
  
Harry found himself standing up without remembering how he’d got there. Then he felt Draco pulling on his arm, and snorted to himself. He would bet desperate strength had something to do with it.  
  
“Look through the crack,” Draco was muttering into his ear, as though he had asked once already and Harry had refused. “Please look.”  
  
Harry bent down and looked into the crack, which ripped across the whole surface of the mirror he could see but was at the height of his knees, which made it a little inconvenient. He couldn’t see much, honestly. A red darkness, and something bright green in it that pulsed. Harry started. It reminded him of the Killing Curse Voldemort had cast at him in the Forbidden Forest.  
  
“Can you see it?” Draco was looking at him with appealing eyes.  
  
“It?” Harry had no idea what he was supposed to be seeing, just that the thing he’d briefly glimpsed through the crack didn’t look like Lucius _or_ the house-elf.   
  
“The thing he’s turning into,” Draco said impatiently, and before Harry could stop him, he grabbed the edge of the crack and yanked, hard.  
  
A piece of glass stabbed into his palm, making Harry grab his wrist and try to hold him back, but more than that, another long piece broke off. And the crack was spreading now, into the mirrors that stood on either side of the original one, forming the perfect triangle. Harry _did_ think that maybe he could see a leg through the cracks, and one of a pair of hands.  
  
But if he could, so far Lucius wasn’t doing much. Just standing there with his hands dangling down beside his legs, Harry thought.  
  
“We have to get him out of there,” Draco whispered. “I think he’s human-shaped again. So why is he just standing there?”  
  
“Maybe that’s one of the decisions he has to make for himself?” Ron offered from behind them. Harry actually leaped in surprise. He hadn’t realized Ron was there. Ron gave him a sheepish smile, but focused on Draco. “If he doesn’t want to come out, then you could cause harm if you try to force him.”  
  
Draco glared at Ron. “But I already made the choice to break the mirrors,” he said. “And so did Harry. That means we can’t cause as much harm now. We made the decisions. We have to live with them.”  
  
“And so does he.” Ron nodded at the unmoving person just barely visible through the cracks in the mirrors again. “Let him stay there until he’s decided if he’s coming out as a human or a house-elf, at least.”  
  
“You think he might decide to stay an elf?”  
  
Draco looked as though someone had launched lightning at him. Harry couldn’t blame him. He had assumed without thinking about it that of course Lucius would decide to separate from the elf, too.  
  
But if he felt unsafe, or felt that he was being pulled and urged on in ways that weren’t of his choice…  
  
“We can’t know that,” Harry said. “But I think I’ve done as much as I can. You’re the one who has to welcome him back. You’re his son. You’re the one who knows him the best, and the one who took all these risks for him.”  
  
Draco started and stared at Harry as if he hated the reminder. “You shouldn’t say that,” he whispered. “I didn’t take _enough_ risks, or I would have started this long ago.”  
  
“Without a magical theorist to construct the ritual and reassure you that you could do it?” Harry kept his voice as quiet and as teasing as he could, even though he was also reaching for Draco’s hand and pulling him forwards. “Without me to help you along? Don’t be silly, Draco. But welcome your father now.”  
  
Draco hovered for one moment more, staring at the mirrors as if he thought every shard would cut him. And then he nodded and pushed forwards. His voice was trembling a little when he called, “Father?”  
  
Another large piece of the mirror fell away from the glass. Draco jumped, but kept his gaze on the indistinct figure he could _just_ see through the cracks. Harry waited with him, wondering if he should back away—Lucius probably wouldn’t want to see _him_ —but unable to abandon Draco.  
  
“Father, come out. It’s your son, and I’m ready to welcome you back.”  
  
Another piece of glass fell out of the mirrors. And then all of the panels cracked and crisped and seemed to freeze from the inside. Maybe they were, Harry thought wildly. He didn’t see how Lucius could have got a wand, but on the other hand, you could do all sorts of things with the wild magic of the ritual.  
  
Lucius Malfoy stepped out.  
  
He was naked, which Harry averted his eyes from at once, and he heard Ron muttering uncomfortably behind them. But Draco didn’t seem to be worried. He stepped towards his father as if mesmerized. Harry let go of his hand.  
  
“Father,” Draco whispered.  
  
Lucius stared at his son, and said nothing. Then he leaned forwards and reached out with one hand. Draco caught it. Harry wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d kissed it, although he didn’t. They stared at each other in silence. Harry was afraid even to swallow through the thick throbbing in his throat.  
  
Then Lucius slapped Draco calmly—one cheek, the other, and on his mouth as Draco staggered. He turned and walked towards the far side of the meadow, ignoring the rest of them as cleanly as if they were invisible.  
  
Draco stood in place, raising one hand to his right cheek. He didn’t act as though he’d noticed the other slaps. He just stood there.  
  
Harry came up to him and put one arm around his shoulders. Draco accepted the support, his eyes still on Lucius as he walked away.  
  
Harry was glad that he was close enough to hear the little mutter Draco made.   
  
“Even _that’s_ his choice.”  
  
And then Draco closed his eyes in obvious weariness and sagged against him, and Harry led him gently away, towards the end of the meadow and the end of the ritual.  
  



	45. Raw and Hurting

“Is Malfoy going to be okay?”  
  
It was nice of Hermione to ask, but it was also at least the fifth time she had asked, and Harry had to worry his tongue for a bit with his teeth before he responded. “I think so. But he needs some time to recover from the shock.”  
  
Hermione nodded wisely and stared at the corner of the room where Draco sat, looking at his hands. “Well, it was a shock.”  
  
 _Yes, it was._ Harry had assumed that Lucius might come out raging and tell Draco he was disinherited, that he would never see the inside of the Manor again, and that Lucius would toss all his son’s belongings out the door after him. But he hadn’t actually thought that was likely. He’d thought the most likely outcome of all was Lucius being deeply confused about whose memories were real, his or the house-elf’s.   
  
_I thought he would need more time to adjust to being human again and to figure out exactly what Draco did._ Harry winced as he looked at the bright red handprint spreading across Draco’s left cheek. He’d offered to heal it, and so had Fleur and Hermione and Bill. Draco wouldn’t let any of them do it.  
  
 _Apparently not._  
  
As if he could feel Harry’s probing stare, Draco lifted his head. And then he was on his feet, forcing his way across the room to Harry. Harry stood up, not sure what would happen next. His looking _had_ been kind of intrusive.  
  
But Draco simply fell into Harry’s arms, and Harry was so startled that he almost didn’t catch him in time. He was glad, as he cradled Draco against his chest, that at least he hadn’t had to deal with _that_. The last thing Draco needed was more pain.  
  
“I want to go home,” Draco whispered.  
  
Harry wasn’t dim enough to think he meant the Manor. He nodded, and spent a moment trying to think. But he had promised Draco he could live with him, and Kreacher had recovered and Harry had sent him back to Grimmauld Place.  
  
That had to mean the Dark magic was largely gone. Besides, Ron had already taken Kelvin and the other wizards who had come with him to the Ministry. That meant Harry had less concern about weak defenses in the first place.  
  
“I can take care of myself,” Draco whispered, as if he were spying on Harry’s thoughts. “Right now, fighting would almost be a relief.”  
  
Harry winced, but nodded, and turned around with Draco in his arms. Fleur was studying them with a worried expression. Harry wouldn’t need her to help him scrape Draco off the floor, though, and he had only one question. “We can go? There aren’t going to be any side-effects of the ritual?”  
  
“Would I have let Ron take the criminals away, if there were?”  
  
Harry smiled at the sarcasm in her tone, although he felt Draco shiver like it was another slap. Well, Draco was vulnerable right now, and reminding him about the ritual that had freed his father wasn’t a good idea. They could wait until they were alone to talk about it. “Thanks, Fleur. We owe you.”  
  
Fleur’s eyes went back to Draco, and they were so troubled that Harry didn’t reach out to her in reassurance only because he had to hold Draco. “I hope so.”  
  
“We _do_ ,” Harry said firmly, and marched Draco out of Shell Cottage. He could at least walk, although he tried to lean on Harry sometimes when Harry wanted to take a step forwards. But Harry just adjusted, and kept walking.  
  
“I feel so weak right now,” Draco was murmuring by the time Harry stopped to listen to him again. “So useless.”  
  
“That doesn’t matter.” Harry readjusted his hold on Draco so that he was in no danger of falling over because of the small rise in the ground just ahead of them. “We can make sure you’re safe when we get to the house.” Harry was going to have Kreacher check all the defensive spells, all the walls, all the windows. If there was anything Old Harry had put into place to either weaken them or invite specific people inside, Kreacher would know about it. He was bound to the magic of Grimmauld Place. He could undo those weaknesses or invitations if Harry ordered him to.  
  
“I know you don’t have any physical battles to fight now. I mean, I don’t know if I’ll be able to help you heal me.”  
  
Harry slowly shook his head. “We don’t know how long it will take to heal you. Or what your father will do next. For now, let’s get you home.”  
  
Draco said nothing, but neither did he try to get away from Harry or resist as Harry Side-Alonged him. Harry half-closed his eyes and mustered his own resistance to the thick ache of pity in his throat.  
  
 _He doesn’t need someone to pity him. He needs someone to help him. And Merlin knows that’s something I should have learned in the past few months._  
  
*  
  
Royal swooped through the window not long after Harry had settled Draco into a bedroom at Number Twelve and instructed Kreacher to bring him a bowl of thick chicken broth. Royal landed on the perch Harry had ready for him and shook his tail expressively, and Harry found himself hoping that the owl had nipped Lucius Malfoy good and hard before he left the Manor.  
  
“Unpleasant company?” Harry asked, from the chair where he was going over a list Kreacher had made for him of the changes Old Harry had put into the house.  
  
Royal gave him a docile look, and Harry laughed. He was sure, now, that Lucius had received that bite.  
  
“Well, he deserved it,” Harry muttered, to himself or the owl he wasn’t sure, as he went back to the list. _Exceptions for Weasley and Granger in the wards._ That wouldn’t be a problem. “Slapping his son like that. Who _does_ that?”  
  
Royal gave an answer in the way he spread his wings and hunched them, then retracted them to his side. _Stupid people._  
  
Harry nodded and read on in the list. _Adjustments to the alarms not to react when Dark potions ingredients are transported through them._  
  
Harry snorted and crossed that out. It had probably actually helped him when Draco was brewing the potion that let him visit some of his memories, but he had no need of it now. If Draco was going to brew Dark potions, he could wait a few months. “If I had family of my own left, I sure as hell wouldn’t push them away and act as if they were tainted.”  
  
Royal had no reaction to that. Harry glanced at him curiously and found that he had drawn himself up into a straight line and closed his eyes. Asleep.  
  
Harry shook his head again and went on through the list. Most of the exemptions were for specific people he could remove; there were a few semi-Dark spells woven into the defenses that the Ministry appeared to have missed when they were in the house, and which Harry decided could stay. The spells themselves weren’t illegal, only the actual casting of them, and that was in the past now.  
  
Harry got up to go start removing the exemptions, and started badly as Kreacher appeared in front of him. He had tears in his eyes so thick that they looked like swarming bugs. His hands were tugging his ears.  
  
“What’s the matter, Kreacher?” Harry kept his voice as gentle as he could. When they came back that morning, he had made sure to explain to Kreacher that Kelvin was shut up and couldn’t hurt him anymore. He wondered now if Kreacher had forgotten.  
  
“Master Malfoy is _not resting!_ ” Kreacher had a shriek to rattle glass when he wanted to.  
  
Harry frowned and hurried up to Draco’s bedroom. He’d seemed so pale and quiet when Harry helped him to bed that Harry was sure he’d go to sleep at once. Perhaps he was having a nightmare or needed to talk to someone about what had happened with Lucius.  
  
But Draco was sitting up in a chair by the window, and barely turned his head in acknowledgment when Harry hastened in. Harry knelt down in front of him. Draco kept looking out the window, although the only thing to see, really, was dirty glass and the side of the Muggle house across the way.  
  
“What is it?” Harry whispered, touching Draco’s leg.  
  
Draco sighed hard enough that he could compete with Kreacher’s shriek. Then he whispered, “Do you know that I never _once_ considered what I would do if my father rejected me? Even as part of me thought of it and was plotting about how I would live with you, the rest of me was sure I would walk back into the Manor. That my father wouldn’t want it because he’d lived as a servant there for years. Or something. I—don’t know.”  
  
“Well, I don’t think anyone can plan for something like that. Or I would have had plans in place for getting my memories destroyed by a Dark curse.” Harry reached out and slowly stroked the bones in Draco’s right wrist, which at least woke Draco up from the staring at the wall he’d been doing. “I have a few months’ lead time on you, but this is still something we can learn together.”  
  
Draco considered him, with a slowness that Harry endured without knowing where it was coming from. Then Draco whispered, “But if I can’t be useful to you?”  
  
Harry frowned, not knowing what he meant. “I don’t need the protections on the Manor anymore, I told you—”  
  
“But all my potions ingredients are in the Manor. I can’t send a house-elf to fetch them, even Kreacher. My father was a house-elf long enough to know all the ways to block them. I can’t—earn money. What am I supposed to do? How can I help you?”  
  
“I have enough money to not worry about that for a while. And there’s a notion I had.” Harry shuffled closer to Draco on his knees and lowered his voice. Draco bent towards him unconsciously. “A radical one, mind you—I don’t know how well you’ll like it…”  
  
“Just tell me.”  
  
“You could try— _not_ brewing potions that have illegal ingredients. Get the ones you can buy in Diagon Alley and grow and collect yourself. And then you don’t have to worry about the potions that you brew attracting attention.”  
  
Draco slapped him hard on the shoulder. “I’m not worried about _that_. I wouldn’t brew Dark portions anyway while I was a guest in your home.” Harry raised an eyebrow at him, and Draco blushed a little. “Well, I mean, not without telling you what I was doing.”  
  
“Right,” said Harry, not entirely convinced, but smart enough to let it go. “So is that the major cause of your despair?”  
  
“I wanted to help you. Take care of you. And I got an owl from Gringotts a few minutes ago that say my father has already reclaimed the Malfoy vaults. It was inevitable, once he reinstated himself as head of the family, but…”  
  
“I know you want to. And I’m touched you want to. But we’re going to survive without that, Draco. I promise. There’s nothing your father can do to us.”  
  
From the way Draco shot upright and then relaxed, Harry knew he’d hit on the real heart of the matter. Draco resented losing his money and his home, but the real problem was what he thought Lucius might _do_ in response, not simply not do.  
  
“If he blames you,” Draco whispered. “And he might. He’ll have his memories back now, enough to remember what we were arguing about and what he wanted me to do before I enchanted him into the house-elf.”  
  
“If he blames me, he can come after me,” said Harry. “But with the Elder Wand and Royal and Kreacher on my side, he won’t have an easy time. I think he won’t take Royal lightly,” he added, seeing that Draco was opening his mouth. “From the way Royal acted when he came back, I think your father already has one owl bite to deal with.”  
  
For a moment, Draco’s face was utterly blank, as if he couldn’t imagine the Mighty Lucius Malfoy having to cope with an owl bite. And then he lowered his head and laughed until his throat must have hurt. “Oh my god,” he finally gasped, leaning his forehead on Harry’s shoulder. “I can only _imagine_.”  
  
“Right.” Harry waited until he’d calmed down enough to focus on Harry again, and then smiled at him. “I promise, Draco. This isn’t easy, and I’m not pretending it will be, but we’ll be safe. Both of us.”  
  
“If he calls me to the Manor—”  
  
“You won’t go alone.”  
  
“But what if he sends an owl saying that he’ll give me back some of the Malfoy property if I go alone?”  
  
“You would really expect that from him?” Harry blinked. He had to admit, he wouldn’t have. Then again, it might just be because he didn’t know Lucius Malfoy as well as Draco did.  
  
“No,” Draco admitted, and his voice cracked down the middle. “But at the moment, I keep thinking that I’ll never really know my father again, so I might as well come up with wild theories and wait for him to prove them right.”  
  
Harry gently brushed his knuckles down Draco’s cheek and shook his head. “I don’t think that’s helpful. Your father will reveal himself one way or the other, and probably soon. Even if it’s just not sending owls.”  
  
Draco shuddered and closed his eyes. “I hope _he_ doesn’t come up with that tactic. Not knowing what he’s about to do or send would drive me mental.”  
  
“But even that’s a response, isn’t it? A sign that he doesn’t want anything more to do with you right now. And if it’s long enough, then you’ll have to relax. And you’ll think about other things, because you have to.”  
  
“What do you mean? Are you going to give me some other things to think about?”  
  
Harry had to laugh at the way Draco fluttered his eyelashes. “Cute,” he said, and nudged Draco in the ribs with his elbow. “But time will, you know. You’ll need to think about gathering new Potions ingredients, and how you’re going to deal with my friends, and what it’s like to live with me when I’m the host and you’re not.” He wasn’t going to call Draco a guest, because he was so much more than that. “And by the time he does send you something, you’ll be better prepared to face it, too.”  
  
Draco sighed for so long that Harry was sort of concerned that he would blast all the air out of his lungs and faint or something. But he ended up simply leaning on Harry’s chest and staring moodily into the distance. “I hadn’t thought you would be so good at this.”  
  
“What? Comforting people?”  
  
“Comforting _me_. Especially considering the rocky way we began after you lost your memories.”  
  
“I can’t think exactly the same way about you anymore. Or myself, or my friends, or your father, or my owl, or the way I approached life, or my Auror work, or the things that Old Harry got praised for, or Ginny, or—”  
  
“Fine, fine, you don’t need to list _all_ the things you have to think differently about,” Draco said hastily. Harry gave him a smug smile. He thought Draco could have gone on listening, but Ginny’s name had pushed him to say something. “But what I’m saying is, you didn’t know much of anything about me when you first began talking to me. And then you learned horrible things. What made you forgive them?”  
  
Harry smiled at him. Draco might never know if Lucius forgave him, but he needed to know Harry did. And if it was sort of a substitute for what he needed most, Harry didn’t mind that. It was an honest thing, and not horrible as long as they both knew what they were doing.  
  
“Because you showed me kindness, too,” Harry said. “And you went through things that genuinely changed you. And you got rid of the Horcrux portrait when I asked you to. And you helped me by brewing that potion that let me see how awful Old Harry had really been. And you gave me signs that you were interested in me and not just my memories.” He paused. “Is this the part where you interrupt and tell me that I don’t need to list all these different things?”  
  
“Let’s say that I could listen to praise of myself a lot longer than I could listen to praise of the Weasleys.”  
  
Harry laughed again and hugged Draco, pulling him against his chest even when Draco began to struggle a little. “Of course. But you should know, Draco, that I wouldn’t be living with you and telling you I’m in love with you if I hadn’t forgiven you. Old Harry was pretty good at hiding his emotions. I’m not. I won’t ever abandon or betray you.”  
  
“You think you won’t. I didn’t think my father would, either, but…”  
  
“You don’t really know him now,” Harry said quietly. “Give him time. It might be that he doesn’t want to do those things, but doesn’t think he has a choice. Or maybe he’s hurting as much as you are.”  
  
“How foolish. _No one_ can be hurting as much as me.”  
  
But at least Draco’s eyes shone with fragile hope, and Harry leaned forwards and kissed him on the nose in delight. “Just wait. It might take a long time, but I think he’ll probably send you an owl soon. Maybe it’ll demand answers to questions that you don’t want to answer, but at least it’ll be a start at communication.”  
  
*  
  
But the next owl that arrived from Lucius Malfoy dropped the letter, not in front of Draco, but in front of Harry, right at the breakfast table.  
  



	46. A Meeting With Lucius Malfoy

“How can you tell _me_ not to go by myself and then do it _yourself_?”  
  
Harry looked at Draco and then away again, with a little sigh. No one could sulk like a Malfoy on the verge of a temper tantrum, he thought, as he gathered up his hair in his hands and stared in the mirror.  
  
And nothing could look as disreputable as a Potter who was trying to fix his hair. Harry finally let it go and accepted that he would probably never be able to make himself fit Lucius Malfoy’s definition of “respectable.” The letter had said he should look respectable, but so what? He would arrive on time and with _somewhat_ flattened hair and nice robes, and that would have to be the end of it.  
  
“Because I’m not in the same kind of danger from your father that you are.”  
  
“That’s rich, considering that he might blame _both_ of us for his imprisonment in the house-elf.”  
  
“I meant emotional danger,” said Harry gently, and saw Draco freeze with his hand in the air and his mouth still open. Harry nodded and went back to examining his reflection in the mirror. “I won’t be blinded by ancient feelings for him to whether he’s going to attack me or not. I’ll reach for my wand before he can reach for his.”  
  
“You can’t know that. My father was very near being a professional duelist at one time.”  
  
“And he’s had years and years of being inside a house-elf, who doesn’t use a wand. I think that will slow his reflexes down.” Harry turned around, saw the way Draco trembled, and nearly broke.  
  
But in the end, all he did was go over and wrap his arms gently around Draco, murmuring into his hair, “The real reason for me to go alone is that the letter said to come alone. It might be the _one_ chance we have to communicate honestly with your father, for you to know whether he’s ever going to forgive you or not. I don’t want to risk that just because I’m annoyed at being ordered around.”  
  
“You could resist,” Draco mumbled into his shoulder as he grabbed hold of Harry. “You could demand he come here and speak with you instead.”  
  
“And what would that accomplish? Nothing except to irritate his pride. In this case, I have less pride to lose, so I’ll go to him.”  
  
Draco sighed out, hard enough to ripple Harry’s hair back and forth. Harry spared a thought for how long he’d spent on it, then snorted a little to himself. He would have done far worse than that if he could spare Draco a sacrifice.  
  
“I do love you,” Draco whispered. “And I want to know what he’s planning, and I want to know badly enough to let you go on your own even after we _said_ that we weren’t going to let that happen.” He lifted his head and poked Harry in the chest. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about that. You’ll hear me on the subject later.”  
  
“The ultimate bad luck,” Harry joked. “To have two Malfoys talking at me in one day.”  
  
“I hope he _does_ meet you with words instead of curses.”  
  
Since he hoped that, too, and knew he couldn’t be sure of it, Harry only hugged Draco again instead of responding. “Well, I’ll do anything as long as I get to hear the words of the one who lives with me.”  
  
 _Yes, all the uncertainty is worth it when he smiles._  
  
*  
  
Even after so short a time living in Malfoy Manor, Harry had to admit it felt strange not to stride through the front gates after he Apparated. He waited for a house-elf to let him inside instead, waited for so long that he did wonder if Lucius had forgotten about the appointment or changed his mind.  
  
But at last, a different house-elf—it jolted Harry a little when he realized he would never see the grey-eyed one again—came to the door and bowed low in front of him. “Master Harry Potter is to be following me,” he said.  
  
Harry obediently did follow, thinking that the less he did to anger Lucius, the less likely he was to mess this up. He really had no idea why Lucius had called him there, and no idea if it would work out the way Draco wanted it to or not.  
  
He stopped when he got into the dining room where he and Draco had often eaten lunch. The huge table was still there, but not set with anything that suggested they were going to have a meal. Lucius was sitting all alone at the head.  
  
Harry nodded to him and then stood there, hands well away from his wand, waiting for Lucius to make the first move. Lucius wore casual dress robes—at least, Harry had learned to class them as casual after watching Draco. His face looked like frozen water. He stared at Harry as if he thought _Harry_ would charge at him, firing curses.  
  
Since that wasn’t about to happen, Harry only waited. And waited. And waited.  
  
Finally Lucius whispered, “I read the newspaper articles. They said that you lost your memories of the past ten years.”  
  
Harry raised his eyebrows. “Yes. If I ever knew about you being trapped inside the house-elf before Draco told me, then I forgot.”  
  
“That’s not why I called you here!” Lucius hit the table with both hands, and Harry drew his wand before he thought about it. But a second after that savage outburst, Lucius sat back and tried to resume his frozen iron stare again.  
  
“That’s not why I called you here,” he repeated. “It was an entirely different reason.”  
  
“All right,” Harry said, and went back to standing. His legs ached a little now, but at least the sudden movement to draw his wand had provided some relief.  
  
“What is it like?”  
  
“What is what like?” Harry had to wonder if perhaps Lucius had lost his own memories or was sinking back into delusions based on the grey-eyed house-elf even after what Harry had just told him. “You’re the one who would know what it was like to be a house-elf. I don’t. I _really_ don’t,” he added, when he saw Lucius opening his mouth again. “If you hoped I could tell you how to become human again, you were—”  
  
“I want to know how you coped with losing your memories.”  
  
Harry blinked hard. _Oh_.   
  
That made sense, when he thought about it. Lucius’s situation was unique, as far as Harry knew. He couldn’t exactly find a group of other humans who had all spent time in a house-elf’s mind, and he would probably spit at the notion of talking to someone like Hermione who simply spent a lot of time around elves.   
  
But if he wanted to know what it was like to wake up a different person than you went to bed, Harry must be the closest person he could name.  
  
Harry ran his hand through his hair, a little overwhelmed. “Look,” he said, glancing at a chair near him. “Can I sit down?”  
  
Lucius jerked his head in a sharp nod like he was a woodpecker hitting a dead tree. Harry sank down in the chair and tried to work his way through his options while Lucius went on staring.  
  
Would he betray Draco by talking to Lucius like this? But it was hard to see how he could, as long as he didn’t give away any secrets. And maybe Harry could even use the chance to put in a good word for Draco.  
  
He looked back up, folded his hands, and asked, “What do you want to know?”  
  
Lucius clenched his jaw so hard Harry winced in sympathy. Then he whispered, pacing his words, “I want to know what happened when you woke up and found that you weren’t the hero they’d spent the last ten years praising.”  
  
“At first I thought someone was playing a joke,” Harry said, silently accepting the implied question. “Hermione was right by my bedside because she’s a Healer, but I didn’t recognize her at first. And then trying to get me to accept it was—overwhelming. I thought I’d gone to sleep the day of the Battle of Hogwarts, right after I defeated Voldemort.”  
  
The name could still make Lucius leap like he’d been shot. Harry saw, and tried not to feel too amused over it. The man was still staring at him. “You lost that much?”  
  
Harry nodded. “Ten years. Not the same ten years as you did, but pretty bloody close.”  
  
“Then what happened?”  
  
“They told me the truth.” Harry looked away from Lucius’s trembling hands, the only courtesy he could afford him right now. “They started working with me to make me accept it. And I think because they didn’t quite believe what had happened themselves, and wanted to see how I reacted to people. They brought in Ginny Weasley, who I’d been living with as a lover, and Kingsley Shacklebolt, who was my boss but also my friend. And there was just—nothing. When they showed me memories, I wanted to be the man I saw in the memories, the strong Auror and the man who loved Ginny, but I couldn’t even imagine what he was feeling.”  
  
“How did you get your memories back?”  
  
“There was no ability to get all of them back,” Harry said quietly. “And the ones I did get back were courtesy of your son. A potion he brewed for me,” he added, because he didn’t think that counted as a secret. Lucius Malfoy, of all people, was not about to betray Draco to the Ministry for practicing Dark Arts.  
  
By now, Lucius had turned so he was looking at the wall and Harry couldn’t make out his expression. “What kind of man was he? What did he feel?”  
  
“A man who kept secrets. I started calling him Old Harry in my head because he was so different from me. He had all these papers lying around. People he knew that his friends didn’t realize he was communicating with. Business arrangements with Draco they didn’t know about. Secret battles, secret enemies…” Harry had to be careful now, he knew. He didn’t especially want to reveal that Old Harry had blackmailed people like Kelvin unless it was a trade that would get something better for Draco. “So it was a double challenge. Or maybe a triple one. Not only did I have to try and understand who I used to be, I had to find out these secrets before they ambushed me, and no one could tell me about them except Draco, and he only knew some of them. And I had to try and get my friends used to me being a different person.”  
  
“I have been reading the _Daily Prophets_ of the last few months. They said you had broken up with Ginny Weasley on the cusp of your engagement.”  
  
Harry glared a little, since Lucius probably wouldn’t see it, mostly because it seemed impossible for a Malfoy to pronounce a Weasley’s name neutrally. “I did. I moved out and she returned to playing Quidditch. I couldn’t be the man she wanted. That man died.”  
  
“Or never existed.” Lucius turned a little so his profile faced Harry. “I have to wonder how much of what I remember is real.”  
  
“I don’t know that,” Harry said. “Unless you want to ask me about the visits I made to the Manor after I woke up as me. I can’t tell you about daily life here.”  
  
Lucius nodded and was silent. Harry almost wondered he was done with the questions, until Lucius murmured, “Would it be easier to think of myself as dead? But no, how could I do that? The man I was still exists.”  
  
Harry remained silent until Lucius made an impatient gesture at him, and Harry realized the question hadn’t been rhetorical. He had to shrug. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “It was easier for me. That’s all I know.”  
  
“Because that man stands no chance of coming back,” Lucius whispered.  
  
Harry cocked his head to watch Lucius. Did he think the house-elf who still existed—at least, Harry thought the elf still existed—would confront him about his old memories? Harry honestly had no idea how likely that was to happen. Most of what he knew about elves was from Dobby, and Dobby had been very different from the grey-eyed elf even when that one still had Lucius as part of him.  
  
“If you think he could come back and you could recover the memories clearly,” Harry said, “then yes, I wouldn’t think of that part of you as dead.”  
  
Lucius turned his head to stare at Harry full on again. “How can I forgive my son?”  
  
Harry breathed through the immediate anger and thought carefully. He didn’t think Lucius was asking a rhetorical question any more than the last one had been. This was just—confusion. Uncertainty. How a proud man could forgive the son who had condemned him to an unthinkable fate.  
  
Harry said the only thing he could. “I know Draco’s anxious for you to forgive him. The reason he never acted before this is because his feelings paralyzed him. He didn’t know if he loved or hated you more, and any ritual like this would have failed unless he really wanted to free you.”  
  
“That is hardly a recommendation.”  
  
“But the ritual worked this time. What does that tell you?”  
  
Lucius lowered his head and stared at his hands, which were probably clenched in his lap. Harry waited. He really had no idea what would happen next, although he did put a hand on his wand just in case it included Lucius leaping up to curse him.  
  
“It tells me he was desperate,” Lucius whispered. “And that he wants me to forgive him because he is homeless and without money otherwise.”  
  
“Well, no, he’s not. He’s living with me, and I do have enough money left to support both of us, even if my old self wasted some of it.”  
  
Lucius lifted his head. “He was obsessed with you. But you were never obsessed with him.”  
  
“It depended on the year,” Harry said wryly, thinking of their sixth year at Hogwarts. Those memories felt fresh and strong and _real_ to him in a way that the ones Lucius was talking about never would. “But still, I owe him a lot now. He was the one who helped me begin walking down a new path. And that ritual helped clear up some problems I was having as well as the ones he was having.”  
  
Lucius stared at him blankly. “How can that be? It was meant to free me.”  
  
Harry nodded. “But because of how complex magical theory is, it had to pull me in, because my life is intertwined with Draco’s. And that meant that my friends and even some of my enemies got pulled in as well.”  
  
Lucius shook his head as though someone had flung cold water on him to wake him up. He looked closely at Harry and then said, “I have less motivation to forgive him if he is not desperate.”  
  
Harry sighed. “Unless you consent to speak with him yourself, I don’t think you can decide how much he wants your forgiveness. But you would despise him if he was desperate, and it sounds like you despise him for not crawling to your feet, too.”  
  
“I have the _right_ to despise him. I am the one who was harmed.”  
  
“You were the one who was about to cast a horrible spell on him, and he fought back.”  
  
Lucius’s mouth trembled for an instant, and then firmed unexpectedly. He tilted his head back and looked at Harry from down a length of nose that Harry thought he hadn’t had five seconds earlier. “If you were going to take my son’s side without any reflection at all, then I should never have invited you here.”  
  
“I might take Draco’s side because I love him,” Harry said. “That doesn’t mean I don’t want to be helpful to you. That’s the best hope of reconciling you and Draco. Which I want to do because I love him. If it was just you, you could twist in the wind for all I care. I came because I promised Draco I would find out what you wanted.”  
  
Lucius gaped at him with an unattractive depth of throat. Harry leaned back and waited for a second, then snorted and started to stand up.  
  
Lucius stretched out a shaking hand, and that was the only thing that made Harry pause. Lucius cleared his throat a few times, and finally managed to say, “I—do want to see my son again.”  
  
Harry nodded.   
  
“But I want it to be on my own terms.” Lucius was straightening his back as Harry watched, flowing back into the posture of a pure-blood Malfoy. “I want him to speak to me and _listen_ , not assume that he has the right to dictate my responses.”  
  
“I’ll tell him that,” Harry promised. “I don’t think he wants to dictate your responses, either. He just wants to be close to you again and know what you think.”  
  
Lucius nodded slowly. “Who would have thought we would have to relate through the medium of a Potter?” he muttered.  
  
Harry shrugged. “No one. Old Harry wouldn’t have agreed, and Old Draco never thought he would get a chance to be with me, and Old Lucius hated any version of me.”  
  
Lucius’s face shook for a second. Then he said, “Very well. Carry the message to my son, and return to me soon with his answer.”  
  
It was more of a concession than Harry had thought they would get. He nodded at Lucius and turned to walk out of the Manor.  
  
He thought Lucius might make some sound to call him back. But he never did. Harry walked out of the Manor and Apparated when he was beyond the grounds, and found his arms full of Draco the moment he walked through the front door of Number Twelve.  
  
“What did he say? Why did he want you there? Do you think he’ll ever want to see _me_ again? What should I do?”  
  
Harry had to hold Draco until he calmed down, and then answer the questions at length before Draco was satisfied. But at last Draco’s face was calming down, smoothing out, and Harry knew he had made an impression.  
  
 _Two Malfoys. And who could have thought I would mediate between them, indeed?_  
  



	47. Never Known

“He didn’t answer my last letter.”  
  
Harry carefully laid down the book he’d been reading on Ancient Runes, and specifically on some varieties of runes that would let you bind an owl to do your bidding less disruptively than simply imprisoning Royal in one room and not letting him out until he stopped shitting on the letters Harry wanted him to carry. “When did you send the last letter, Draco?”  
  
Draco sat on the other side of the table, scowling at Harry. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything,” he said. “If Father isn’t going to answer it.”  
  
“When did you send it, Draco?”  
  
Draco looked away and sat there with what looked like a blush prickling down the side of his cheeks and neck. Harry was getting familiar with that blush, lately, since they’d started reconciling with Lucius, or perhaps he should say the _process_ of reconciling with Lucius. “An hour ago,” he muttered.  
  
Harry nodded calmly. “And it’s early in the morning. We got up early because you wanted to send the letter and have me read it over before you sent it—”  
  
“I _know_ that—”  
  
“It was just that you seemed to have forgotten when you sent the letter. So I was reminding you in case you forgot.”  
  
Draco glared at him. Harry went on with his interrupted sentence, after a moment, when it became clear that Draco wasn’t going to say anything. “So he might still be asleep. Or he might be contemplating the letter and how to answer it. Or maybe he’ll Floo us and invite us over that way. You don’t know yet, so try to relax.”  
  
“There’s no way he would Floo us. He would never lower himself to such a gesture when he thinks he’s in the right—”  
  
There was a small, distinctive sound in the drawing room. It might, Harry thought, trying to contain his laughter, if you strained your ears and listened a little in silence the way Draco was doing right now, resemble a Floo connection opening. If you listened.  
  
“That won’t be him,” said Draco, pushing his chair back from the table and scowling at Harry as if he had altered the fabric of the universe, including Lucius Malfoy’s character, for his own amusement. “It’ll be one of your stupid friends, come to harass you about getting back together with Weasley’s sister.”  
  
“That was only Ron. And only once.”  
  
Draco opened his mouth to say something about it anyway, but Kreacher popped up then, bowing, and Harry turned to him with a delicious sense of getting the last word, which he had to admit didn’t happen often. _Not with Draco, anyway._ “Yes, Kreacher? Who is it?”  
  
“Master Lucius Malfoy.” Kreacher’s eyes were darting back and forth between Harry and Draco as if trying to figure out which one of them had invited Lucius over, and how upset he had to be. “He says he is wishing to speak to masters.”  
  
“To _both_ of us?”  
  
Draco made no secret of his disappointment, and Harry reached out and placed a steadying hand on Draco’s arm before he could start yelling. Draco sat back and closed his eyes, but then nodded. Reassured, Harry faced Kreacher. “Did he give the reason why?”  
  
“No. He only said he is wishing to speak to masters.” Kreacher looked anxiously back and forth between Draco and Harry. He wanted to do everything he could to make Draco happy as well as Harry, Harry knew, but that didn’t mean he understood Draco’s anxieties.  
  
“Good. Then we’ll come in and find him. Please seat him in the drawing room.”  
  
Kreacher nodded and vanished. Harry turned and drew Draco to his feet, shaking him by the hand a little when he tried to sit back down. “You wanted to see him.”  
  
“I wanted to see him _alone_. If he’s coming to talk to both of us—it might be to declare a blood feud, or he might want to insult both of us at the same time—”  
  
“We don’t know yet,” Harry pointed out. “And until we know for sure, it’s useless sitting here and speculating.”  
  
Draco gave him a wounded, offended look, but Harry only kept holding his hand out with a determined expression. Finally, Draco gave a great sigh and placed his hand in Harry’s.  
  
*  
  
Kreacher had seated Lucius in the most elegant chair in the drawing room—which wasn’t the most comfortable one—and brought a plate of inferior sandwiches on the best china in the house. Harry grinned a little as he sat down in front of Lucius. It appeared Kreacher couldn’t decide whether to serve Lucius well as a pure-blood or punish him for making Draco upset, so he’d compromised.  
  
“Mr. Potter.” Lucius looked at him for such a long time that Harry wondered if he hadn’t come intending to speak to Draco at all, or had changed his mind at the last minute. Then his eyes shifted to Draco, and he nodded.  
  
Draco sat down on the edge of his chair with his hands gripping it. Harry hadn’t expected much different, really. He took a seat between the two Malfoys but closer to Draco, and waited to hear what Lucius had to say.  
  
It was silence, for minute after minute. Maybe Draco was getting impatient, or was supposed to be impatient, but he honestly didn’t show it. He sat there and waited, although Harry could see a gentle vibration starting up in his leg.  
  
Finally, Lucius said in what was almost a whisper, almost a _deferential_ whisper, “I find it hard to forgive you for the things you did to me, Draco.”  
  
Draco flinched and waited. Lucius nodded as if he wanted to see those words go home and hurt, and added, “But I will have to.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
Harry covered his mouth a second later. He’d meant to leave that question up to Draco, not blurt it out himself.  
  
On the other hand, Lucius didn’t seem to notice Harry had spoken at all. His eyes were locked on his son, not looking away.   
  
“Because you are my son,” said Lucius. “There is no one else in the world I am so linked to. Except the house-elf.” For an instant, his face settled in harsh lines. “Sometimes he watches me as if remembering what it was like to be me.”  
  
“Have you punished him?” Harry asked. For Dobby’s sake, and Kreacher’s, and even Hermione’s, he had to ask.  
  
Lucius gave him a look as sharp as scorn could make it, and turned back to Draco. “I do not want to spend the rest of my life not knowing what I don’t remember. Mr. Potter told me that he couldn’t recall most of his memories, and would never be able to—”  
  
“It’s more than that,” Draco interrupted, his eyes and head both absurdly high. “He _gave up the chance_ to recover his memories when he could have. That was one thing Weasley—the magical theorist—told him might be able to happen with the ritual. But he sacrificed the chance so you could be free of the house-elf.”  
  
Lucius stared at Harry now. Harry looked back. He didn’t know what Lucius’s next move would be, but it might be almost anything, so he made sure he had his wand to hand and was sitting there looking unthreatening at the same time.  
  
“Why did you do that?” Lucius asked.  
  
“Because I’d already become reconciled to the notion that I wouldn’t be able to get my memories back,” Harry answered, ignoring the sharp nudge Draco gave his ribs. He knew what Draco _wanted_ him to say, but Harry wasn’t good with lies, not the way his old self had been. “And it was important to Draco that you have the chance to win your freedom. What Draco wants is important to me.”  
  
“You wouldn’t know it, from the way you ignore me,” Draco muttered.  
  
Harry smiled encouragingly at him. Just because he’d ignored the nudge didn’t mean he ignored what Draco wanted in general.   
  
“You make an interesting point, Mr. Potter.” Lucius’s eyes were flat and shiny, like buttons. Harry remembered hearing that he could charm most people in the Ministry, that he didn’t even need to use the Imperius Curse. At the moment, Harry wondered how he’d managed. “What would you do for Draco?”  
  
“A lot of things. But none of them because you threatened me, or him.”  
  
Draco groaned and hid his head in his hands. Harry continued to ignore him patiently, eyes on Lucius. He needed the man to _think_ about this.   
  
Lucius slowly leaned back in his chair. Either he was too occupied to think about the discomfort of the chair or he didn’t think it was uncomfortable. _Maybe he has half-a-dozen at home. Because how things_ look _is most important, right?_ “You mean that if I threaten never to invite Draco home again—”  
  
“Draco can choose what he wants to do, in that case. But I won’t let you threaten me into acting recklessly.”  
  
“Some might say that coming to see me the other day was reckless.”  
  
Harry smiled at him. “Would you? If so, that’s good to know, and I won’t do it again without bringing along a few artifacts from here that the Blacks left behind. They might have interesting effects on you.”  
  
Nothing about Lucius’s face suggested that he had really _heard_ Harry’s suggestion. He turned and faced Draco, and even Harry had the sense to shut up. Just as he wasn’t going to do certain things because Lucius threatened or suggested them, he didn’t want to cost Draco something because he had said the wrong thing at the wrong time.  
  
“You know how much I care for you,” Lucius whispered.  
  
Draco remained strong in the face of that appeal, to Harry’s astonishment. His hands trembled a little, which Lucius probably saw, but his voice didn’t as he said, “Not enough about _how_.”  
  
Lucius understood the implied question, which Harry didn’t, not right away. His face darkened and he said, “You are my son.”  
  
“Not good enough right now. What does that _mean_ to you?”  
  
“It means—that you are someone I cannot turn my back on, as much as I might want to.” Lucius’s fists were trembling, but he kept them low down at his sides, and Harry was only sure of the tremor because he was sitting so close. “Someone I must have as part of my life. I do not always _want_ him as part of my life, but there he is. There you are.”  
  
It seemed to have been the combination of words Draco was waiting for, because he rose with a low sob and stood there. Harry thought he might walk over and embrace his father, but he didn’t. He remained still, raptly searching Lucius’s eyes, for a few minutes, then sank back on the couch and whispered, “If I had had any idea of that when you were telling me that I had to marry someone…”  
  
“I didn’t feel it the same way then.” Lucius finally shut his eyes, something Harry would have done a long time ago if it was him, and shuddered slightly. “I think Mr. Potter is right. My years as a house-elf changed me. There is no room for lying now, for dissimulation, not in the way I used to practice it. I—must ask you to forgive me, Draco.”  
  
He was grinding his teeth on those last words, Harry thought, but Draco didn’t seem to notice or care. He crossed the distance between him and Lucius fast enough that Harry was left blinking at a blurred flash of his movement, and grabbed his father in his arms. Lucius held him there, awkwardly, and Draco said, “I forgive you, too. I think you probably know that, but I _want_ you to know…”  
  
Harry could translate those words, and hoped Lucius could, too. Telling Lucius in those words meant Draco was no longer afraid or ashamed of saying he had forgiven him.  
  
Tentatively, Lucius embraced Draco. And Harry quietly stood and slipped out of the room, feeling, in a way, that he had already seen too much. He could always count on Draco to tell him more that he needed to know later, if he needed to know it at all.  
  
*  
  
“I think maybe you could be good after all.”  
  
Harry blinked and turned to Teddy. He’d been watching Draco talk with Andromeda on one side of the table in Andromeda’s back garden and Hermione on the other. So far, no fights had broken out, but Harry had to admit that he was looking for them all the time. It was only luck that it hadn’t ruined the Quidditch match he played with Teddy.  
  
Teddy, who stood now holding his broom and staring up at Harry with a thoughtful frown on his face. Harry asked, “What do you mean?”  
  
“You play good Quidditch.” Teddy frowned down at the ground, and his hand moved restlessly back and forth on his broom. “And you’re not—you’re not _him_. But you’re not trying to be him, either.”  
  
“I thought that would be a waste of time, since I’m not him,” Harry said. It was the truth, but he probably wouldn’t have spoken it if Teddy’s words hadn’t startled him so.  
  
Teddy looked at him. His eyes were brown today, with maybe a dash of hazel, and they squinted against the sun. “I thought you wanted to. When you heard about what a good godfather he was to me…”  
  
Harry shifted his weight uneasily. He and Teddy still weren’t very sure around each other. Draco was better with Teddy, maybe because he could remember so many things of the last ten years that were casual and tripped Harry up without him even thinking about it. Harry had been reading back issues of the _Daily Prophet_ , but it wasn’t the same as living through those years.  
  
So, most of the time when Harry visited Andromeda and Teddy—or even when they all got together with his friends, like today—Draco was the one to talk to Teddy. He did it with a smile and bright friendliness, and Teddy seemed content enough, and Harry knew he couldn’t be a substitute for Old Harry. So, other than offering to play Quidditch with Teddy today, he’d stayed out of the way.  
  
 _Maybe offering to play Quidditch with him helped more than I knew_ , Harry thought, with another glance at Teddy. He seemed to be hesitating over something. Maybe he was finally going to ask Harry the kinds of questions Harry knew he would have asked long ago, in his place.  
  
Instead, Teddy shook his head and changed his features. His hair stayed the same, bright blond in honor of Draco, but his eyes turned the intense green Harry saw looking back from the mirror so often. He stared at Harry and waited for some comment.  
  
Harry knew he would go wrong if he tried to make it too heavy. He contented himself with grinning and tugging on a lock of Teddy’s hair instead of searching for great, grand words. Old Harry was the one who’d used those, and Harry couldn’t.  
  
“Looks good.”  
  
Teddy blinked and said, “Really? You think so?”  
  
“Yes.” Harry turned around and nudged Teddy towards Draco, who was now leaning back and listening as Hermione and Andromeda debated something. “Go torment Draco. See how long it takes him to notice.”  
  
Teddy looked startled, and then grinned. He bounced off and leaned on Draco’s elbow. Draco touched his shoulder without looking away from the two women, and Harry grinned himself and began to count under his breath.  
  
He reached twenty before Draco glanced at Teddy in a more than casual way, and then he jumped out of the chair, swearing. Harry grinned and strolled up behind him. “It’s just the way he wanted to change his eyes,” he said. “Teddy is a Metamorphmagus, you know.”  
  
Draco stared hard at him. “You know that’s not why it hit me so hard,” he said.  
  
Harry paused, and then slowly inclined his head in acknowledgment. Draco had made it clear that the one thing he regretted giving up to be with Harry was children. Teddy looking like a mixture of them right now had been a somewhat cruel joke.  
  
But if they had to give up and break apart when the first time a joke fell flat, they never would have got together at all. Harry held out his hand, and Draco sighed and clasped it and rolled his eyes.  
  
“I thought it would be funny.”  
  
“It wasn’t.”  
  
But Draco’s tone was already softer, and he leaned against Harry and put an arm around his shoulder. Teddy only watched them with his eyebrows raised before he shook his head again, visibly dismissing the follies of adults, and went to beg biscuits from Andromeda.  
  
Harry happened to look up in time to catch Ron choking on his tea as he watched him and Draco. Harry found himself blinking like Teddy, caught in a breathless moment where he honestly wasn’t sure what would happen next.  
  
Then Ron rolled his eyes and lifted his teacup in a salute before he went back to reading the _Daily Prophet_. Harry relaxed and leaned harder against Draco.  
  
And Draco swayed but remained standing upright.  
  
And Teddy was already stuffing biscuits down his throat while he asked for another game of Quidditch, while Andromeda watched him indulgently. Harry decided that the misstep wasn’t enough to ruin the afternoon.  
  
 _No need of lies. Just him, and me, and us. All of us._  
  
 **The End.**  
  



End file.
